Stories Are Just Stories
by Doktor Al Meringue
Summary: Sniper's silly stories are enough to get Scout riled up- but are they really just stories? I plan on writing at least one or two other chapters for it. Rated M for language and maybe possible smut.
1. First contact

"Please believe me: what I'm about t'say t'all a'ya, it ain't no lie."

The Sniper rose the lantern to meet each of the men's faces. Scout sat in the middle of the trio of men sitting on the log, leaning forward eagerly though he feigned boredom. The Heavy sat to his right, puzzled at this phenomenon that he'd been told was a 'ghost story' and had absolutely zero ghosts, and the Engineer on the opposite side playing idly with a claw-like metal contraption. The Aussie smiled crookedly. "Those with the faint of heart," he looked at Scout, "should leave now. Don't want none-a-ya' crawlin' around the base at night because of some silly nightmares."

The Scout flipped him off. The universal sign of dismissal. "Shut the hell up, cockfag! Just tell us the damn story already!"

Sniper dulled the fire in the lantern, then lay it down next to him. He thrust his hands out to the rapidly dying fire dividing the two. Coals flickered orange with their last dying contributions to the overall welfare of those who lit them, but eventually succumbed to the chill of the night. As did the men.

He lit a cigarette. A curl of smoke; the glowing tip was the only source of light other than the stars. Perfect for a scary tale.

"They say 'es down 'ere. Swimmin' around, just waitin' feh someone to come creepin' along that don't know about 'im. Over four meters long-"

"That's 'bout fifteen feet, Scout, 'fore you say anythin'."

"With tentacles the width a'yeh torso. Long as you are tall, covered in slime. They'll sneak up behind ya' - don't look, though, you'll only make 'em mad. That'll get you killed, it will."

Scout, at this point, was absolutely enthralled. Half perched upon the wood and half so far forward he nearly buried his nose in the coals, he didn't notice the Engineer taking his leave and the sly wink from Sniper that went towards him.

"Some say he used t'be one a'us. A long time ago, long before you blokes got 'ere, we used'ta have us a Spy. Good at what he did. Never spoke a word. Kept the BLU Spy offa' me, can't say that 'e was a bad guy. One day, he just up an' leaves," he moved his arm across his body, signifying nothing, "like that! An' no one 'ears from 'im again. Suffice t'say, we go out lookin' fer 'im one night. Can't find 'im nowhere. Jus' as we're leavin', Demo says 'e 'ears a screamin' comin' from the sewers."

Scout scoffed, leaning back as he realized how ridiculous he looked. "Yeah, right, whutevah. You can't scream underwater! What a load of bullshit."

The Aussie shrugged, withdrawing the smoke and exhaling, a slight cough following. "What about whales, then?" That shut Scout up. "Now. As I was sayin'. Demo walks over to the water, looks in. Somethin's movin' down there. 'E looks closer. And closer." Scout leaned forward again. He never could stand suspense. "Then it bursts outta the water with a-!"

_Skreeeee! _

Scout's womanly screaming sounded much manlier in his ears, though that had to be the Russian man beside him, as he utilized that fantastic speed to dart over to the nearest rock and cower behind it. The Heavy became quiet when he noticed the Texan behind him, PDA in hand, grinning like a jackal. Sniper doubled over in laughter, draping an arm over the Engineer once he came closer. "Oh, oh lad, I didn't think we'd get ya' that bad!" Scout peeked around the rock. If the frown on his face had been any deeper, it might have fallen off. "You damn near pissed yourself! I think I'm 'avin' a 'eart attack, mate!"

Shoulders slumped, the kid walked back over to his seat. Great. Even the Heavy had joined in. "Laugh it up, chucklenuts. We'll see whose laughin' tomorrah when I crack all ya' skulls in."

The Engineer tossed a bucket of water on the pit to make double sure their base wasn't going to be cinders in the morning. The largest and smallest of the group bid the Aussie and Bostonian good night, and walked side by side (it was a well-known fact that the Heavy wasn't fond of the darkness) back to the base.

Sniper and Scout, not too keen of the yelling that was to ensue if their garbage was spotted by Solider, and being the last ones left, set to cleaning the area up. The aftermath one morning after a victory party (one that Soldier had not been invited to) inspired the American to decree that no such parties would be held again if they were going to leave their precious base littered with bottles of scrumpy. A small price to pay. Though the definition of 'clean' varied from person to person.

As Scout picked up the last bottle, cradling it with a host of other bottles, he asked, "You were just kiddin' about that stupid Spy stuff, right?" He could see the Sniper grin through the darkness, setting another cigarette between his lips. It wasn't nearly as bad as Spy's addiction, but his lungs weren't too far from being in the same danger.

"Ask Demo yehself. Sure 'e'd be 'appy to tell ya'."

* * *

><p>The battle was scheduled to begin early in the morning. Scout rubbed his eyes and yawned loudly, swaying a little on his heels as he waited for the commandment that they were released. Orange hadn't even broken the horizon yet. He should've been in bed, dreaming about Maryiln Monroe, or Jean Shrimpton. Yeah, Jean Shrimpton...<p>

A sharp crack to the back of the head snapped him out of that reverie. He flinched, wincing, hand falling to the wound. It didn't hurt or anything, more just pure instinct to console the area. A very angry Soldier suddenly appeared. "Get your head in the game, maggot! No time for staring off into space! _This. is. WAR_!"

"Blow it up your ass," Scout grumbled, but looked away as Soldier peered at him under his helmet.

The American snorted and walked down the row of groggy soldiers, barking commands and giving advice on how they were going to capture their control points. "Yesterday was merely a fluke! Only today, ladies, will you prove yourselves to be _men. _Now, we can't do what we did yesterday: the enemy will be expecting us to rush them. They will have fortified their defenses! Well, on the surface, is a small place. Therefore, today we shall take to the _sewers_!" He accented the last word with an emphatic fist-pump. "Yes... they won't expect a single thing. If we win today, then we'll have the honor of moving to Dustbowl!"

Groans filled the air. Dustbowl wasn't easy. It had never been easy, from its conception. From the stifling heat and sand to the severe disadvantage that RED team had, it wasn't the spot of choice to be sent to. "You pussy-foots stop complaining! Why I remember, back in the first World War..."

Those who actually listened to Soldier's war stories would find a serious amount of improbable events both physically and time-period wise.

Scout fell into the majority who simply didn't care. As Soldier touched upon the invention of the light bulb that powered his flamethrower and the entire Nazi regime (a sly nod to just how he felt about their Medic) he obliterated with only one arm, the kid slid over to the Scotsman, who had already knocked back two-thirds of his second bottle of Scrumpy since they'd been summoned. He tapped the older gentleman on the shoulder. It took him a little to respond. Alcohol was always the highest priority.

"Ach, ya' wee lad. Ye look like shit! Wha's ye problem? Ye on' leh come te meh wehn somethin's wrong."

"Nothin' ain't wrong." Demoman was better at reading people than he let on. A side-effect of being a life-time drunk. "I just, ah, had a question."

"Aye? Well spit it out lad, 'fore we get sent out ta' be blown ta' bits an' I won' have an ear to listen with!"

"Did you really find somethin' livin' in that water?"

The man froze mid swig. The bottle fell from his lips slowly, almost mechanically. His voice became a gravelly whisper and his good eye narrowed.

"... bastard took me eye." That's all Scout was able to get from him before the battle.

Defeat came swiftly. Scout absolutely refused to go into the sewers. Sniper and Engineer ridiculed him for it; Soldier said that without him the sewer mission was impossible, though Sniper and Engineer would be in for a special punishment for being the main cause of Scout's irrational fear. The back up plan ended up with half of the team getting obliterated in the first five minutes: as had been predicted, BLU was expecting a full-frontal assault and had rightfully prepared for it. The control points became BLU territory in the following two minutes. To say the least, the RED team members were in deep shit.

"You maggots have embarrassed your _country_! Your _manhood_!_ AMERICA,_ for _PETE'SSAKE_! _AND NO MAN EMBARRASSES AMERICA, FOR SHE IS TOO GOOD FOR ANY OF YOU_." Each member got their own chastisement no shorter than ten minutes and no longer than fifteen. Except Scout. That lasted until Soldier exhausted every insult in his repertoire and some that didn't exist until that very moment.

At the hour mark Scout realized that the man simply spewed same reworded taunts, and joined the rest of the members who had taken their leave some time ago.

Tomorrow would just be another day in Well, as the scores were now tied. Sources reported that if BLU was to win, everyone would be sent to Badwater Basin: the bastard spawn of Goldrush and Upward. Not the greatest place in the world, and one that BLU had proven their proficiency at pushing the Payload in a record match of only two minutes, but anything in the world was better than Dustbowl. And still he suggested it when it came time for location changes.

The issue of the monster in the water gnawed at the back of Scout's head. Sniper's stories were just that, stories. He could paint a picture with words, he could strike fear in the hearts of the listener; Engineer had once suggested that he go into acting. None of them were true as far as Scout had learned. If Demoman hadn't said anything then the kid could let it be. But, he had, Scout couldn't, and the itch to know was so bad that he found himself scratching wildly at his skin if he drifted off into another daydream.

He tried asking Demoman more questions about it. That only ended up with Scout getting a broken bottle tossed at him halfheartedly and a sobbing, broken mess of a Scotsman.

So, he moved on to the Sniper.

The kid banged furiously on the outside of the camper van, a slew of curse words spewing forth as the realization that metal became hot when you left it out in the sun struck him like a burn. It was an odd day if Sniper was found inside of the base for anything else other than food or to use the restroom like a civilized person. "Yo! Snipes, you in there? Stop jackin' off, I'm comin' in." He kicked the door until the Aussie opened it, and threw himself into the small space. Plainly decorated, a calendar and the strangely floral sheets adoring his bed the only obvious sources of style. Judging from the open bottles of oil and the plethora of rags that littered the floor, Sniper must have been polishing his gun before Scout showed up.

"So, what brings you here, wanker?" Sniper plopped down on his bed, tucking his arms beneath his head.

Scout deadpanned. "You act like you don't know. Is it real or not, man. Just tell me that and I can go. Look at my arms!" He thrust the underside of his arms forward. The thin flesh was chapped, swollen and red, broken and slightly bleeding in spots, almost like eczema. "I can't stop scratchin'. They's gonna be nubs by the end a'tomorrah! I gotta know, man!" The Sniper appeared to be considering the comical aspects of Scout having nubs, a slow grin breaking out on his face.

"Yo! You listenin', kanga? I'll beat some sense into ya' if ya' ain't."

The RED member leaned over the bed menacingly (or as menacingly as a Scout could) but Sniper sat up and brushed him away. Scout took his seat again in a huff. "I'm listenin', you gnat. You really wanna know?"

An emphatic nod from Scout.

"Yeah, it's real. Last time we was here was when Demo found it. Lives in the lower parts of Well, down in the shallow parts of the sewers once you get past all the wet stuff. It ain't for the faint of 'eart, lad. It's..." He drifted off. "I'm guessin' that Scot didn't tell you about 'is eye since you're 'ere; 'e's still pretty sensitive about it. 'e threw one'a them bombs at it- bounced back into 'is face, lost 'is eye. Lucky 'e didn't lost much else to tell ya' the truth. Medic patched 'im up alright."

He frowned suddenly. Sniper abruptly stood up and began to shoo the guest out of his camper, the aforementioned nearly falling flat on his face at the unexpected tumble down into the red dust. "If you're gonna go down there, I suggest you bring somethin' to fend feh yehself."

"How'd you know I was gonna?" Scout spit out a glob of red saliva on the ground.

Sniper grinned, and removed his hat. Hair only just covered a long, gnarled scar from the front of his skull stretching to the back. "'Cause I did the exact same."

* * *

><p>Despite being armed with a map that Sniper and Demoman had been so gracious to provide, his trusty Sandman (ball as well), and as much protection as a batter's helmet and cleats could provide, Scout couldn't help the wave of nausea crashing into him that came whenever he looked down into the water channels. At night the normally clear water resembled tar- certainly not something you would go jumping into willy-nilly.<p>

Plus, Scout wasn't that great of a swimmer. Boston public pools were so vile that even Scout wouldn't go near them.

And he'd drank Sniper's piss on a dare.

Gingerly he placed a hand into the water, recoiling instantly. He shot the liquid a steely glare. Cold. Fantastic.

He really didn't want to do this. _Oh god_, he didn't want to do this.

But bandages wrapped tightly around his forearms, along with a warning from Medic that any further incidents would come with a straight jacket, urged otherwise.

A deep breath. Slipping the baseball bat into a special sleeve strapped across his chest, the kid positioned himself on the edge of the canal, swinging his arms back and forth. Eyes closed, he prepared to jump into the water. After a few swings that idea was abandoned and Scout dropped down and stuck his legs into the water to get used to it. "Fuckin' water. Fuckin'... fuckin' shit, man," Scout hissed, lowering himself further into the murky depth until all that remained above water was his head. He waded around for a while and tried to ignore the chattering of his teeth.

Finally the courage came and underneath he went.

The surface didn't lie: the bottom had no light whatsoever. A few manhole covers and grates let in a little bit of light; otherwise, he was simply on his own. He navigated through feel. Tunnels twisted every which way, some lower and lower - those being the most difficult to get to because of how little air Scout could hold - and some turning sharply up into exits. At one point he was sure he'd waded into BLU base territory: loud slurs against the BLU team's doppelganger members drifted through the grate openings, and Scout would forever be traumatized due to seeing up a Heavy's open towel. It took too many lefts and rights before he made it to where he assumed the 'x' was on the parchment.

Scout hoisted himself upon the concrete embankment and proceeded to hack up a lung. Residual fire still seared his lungs; that last breath of air had not been enough. He pulled himself over to a corner to regain his composure. Suddenly, he frowned, rubbing his fingers together. A rough substance- thanks to the runner's negligence, the map was forever ruined, as paper didn't seem to take to water too well.

Oh well. He'd have to make due.

He pulled out a bulky cylindrical object and flicked the switch on. While his bat hadn't fared too well in keeping dry, thankfully the flashlight had. The cone of light revealed the embankment to be similar to the resting spot in the smaller sewers of 2fort, aptly named the Engineer's paradise. Most of it was just flat. It dipped off at the other end into the water again, though exactly where that lead Scout couldn't be sure. Hopefully back to RED.

But, there was no time to waste. "Time to find this thing." Scout removed the bat from its case. Slightly engorged with water, but otherwise fine and dandy, aside from the crack that had always been there.

He played with the wood in his hands for a while, tossing it back and forth, spitting in his palms and rubbing them together. Scout took aim. "Yo! Whatevah's down heah, come on out!"

He swung. The Sandman connected with a pipe, causing a loud ringing sound that reverberated pleasantly off of the concrete walls. First instinct made him flinch; but those few seconds of paranoia quickly passed. And so the kid waited. And waited. And waited. "That_ asshole_!" Scout threw the bat on the ground. The hollow clanging sound only served to make him angrier. He didn't even bother to get it once it rolled off into the waters. "Fuckin' lied to me! Man! Never trust an Australian, that's what Ma' always said-"

Scout keeled over with a scream at the sharp pain in his skull. It took him a while to re-cooperate, most of the time spent figuring out what the hell had just happened. "_Shit! That hurt!_"

The culprit bounced off of the wall and casually rolled over to Scout's feet. Idly hands turned it over and over, bewilderment on the male's face. Where the hell did that bat come from?

Rumbling. Low, quickly building in intensity and strength. The soft _hush_ of water as _something moved through it._

"May I make a suggestion?" Came the voice, soft and sultry and smooth and dripping with evil and _oh dear god Scout was going to die_.

Something with weight and wetness began to slither up the boy's back. Scout didn't even breathe. It touched him, caressed his cheek, the strange appendage of rubber coated in slime.

"Run."

Scout didn't have to be told twice.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I honestly don't know where I'm going with this but I've fallen into the Tentaspy fad even though it's old and god why do I love it so much.

I'll finish it or something. Promise.

It MIGHT take a dive into sexxins. Might. Not sure yet.


	2. Second attempt

**Author's Note: Top o' the Page. **

So, as I reread the first chapter, I noticed a few things:

- Scout says 'yo' more than the average hip Bostonian really should.

- There's a lot more Sniper in this than I thought there would be, especially for a Tentaspy story.

- I can't write endings very well.

I'll try and fix Scout's speech and the endings in later chapters. I have decided that this'll probably have more than one or two like I said.

I might vary how many times Sniper pops up or just include more members, to kind of balance it out. Unless it isn't that big of an issue. I hope it isn't.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>Bright lights. That's all Scout could see, a searing, white glow that penetrated the protective outer layer of eyelid and caused spots to form in the darkness. Such an intense light that opening his eyes was impossible. A pleasant warmth coursed through his body. It was impossible to move; as if he were being held in a tub full of warm water and concrete.<p>

Yep. He was dead.

"I regret everything," the boy sobbed, unable to control the warm tears that streamed down his cheeks, "I regret everything I've ever done! Ma, I'm so sorry- I never became the president like you wanted. Oh god, why'd I have to die now?"

"Die?" A low chuckle. "You do not have ze privilege of dying just yet, mein Scout. You are still my patient as of now. Move your arm for me, vould you?"

Surprised never was a good look for Scout, jaw slack and eyebrows raised to the hair line, snapping his eyes open quicker than he could run. He moved the fluorescent light positioned directly over his face away, sitting up with the motion and rubbing his eyes to get the sparkles out. And the tears. "I ain't... I ain't dead?"

The Medic snorted. "Hardly. Unfortunately." The German pushed the patient back down rather roughly. He removed his gloves and discarded them before speaking again. "No, you are still very, very alive. You just have a nasty bump on ze back of your head. Soldier didn't believe me vhen I said zat you vere a lost cause. Perhaps you should be zanking him zat I am not picking clean your bones at zis very moment. And Herr Wilhelm vas so in need of a friend." Scout's eyes wandered to the skeleton at the end of the room. Placed in a comical position resembling that of a ballet dancer either due to a prank or out of boredom, it served to remind just how heartless their particular Medic was. He shivered at the thought. That pile of bones had once belonged to a greenhorn BLU Medic who'd unfortunately just happened to cross RED Medic's path. And he wasn't opposed to using teammates, either.

The doctor made a quick note upon a chart after checking Scout's arm, back, and heartbeat. "Vell, disregarding ze bump, you are in fine condition. You are not lacking in any motor skills and your auscultation and percussion are only slightly above normal; you are a runner, I expected as much even vhen bed ridden. No concussion or anyzing! Ach, you are one lucky bastard."

When the Medic turned his back (for previous attempts had been unsuccessful), Scout touched his head, wincing. "I told you so," the Medic quipped. God, he had ears like a dog. He hadn't bothered to bandage it tightly as he had Scout's arms. Any contact made it throb, sending sparks of pain throughout his skull. "Exactly vhy vere you in ze vater in ze first place, Scout?"

Scout reached to rub the back of his head but froze just before he brushed it. Ha. Take that, hand. "Uh. Goin' feh a swim?"

"You are a horrible liar."

"Yeh muddah." The Medic glared at the boy. Scout quickly changed his tone. "Alright, alright! Jeez. Snipes tol' me about some sorta' monstah down there an' I went to go and find it. Happy, sowahkraut?"

"Did you find it?"

"What?"

"Did you find it? Ze monster you vere speaking of? I should certainly hope so: Sniper nearly had a heart attack vhen he found your body on ze edge of ze canal. Of course, I offered to perform the autopsy before anyone said anything. Zen you started breazing." The words were spoken as if they brought a rancid taste to merely think of. "Go zank him as vell, I suppose." He waved a hand in dismissal, and set to tidying things up around the bed. He looked up at Scout, who looked as if he were trying to think, and frowned. "You may go, boy."

Scout nodded. "Yeah. Uh, thanks doc."

"Don't mention it," he hissed, "Ever."

* * *

><p>Sniper had a penchant for using his scope for what he liked to call 'observing' the BLU base members during ceasefire. He would camp out in the very top windows of the building, and simply stare down the barrel for an indiscriminate amount of time. Coincidentally, that was also where extra jars of Jarate were stored.<p>

Scout briefly eyed the shelf full of liquid when he walked into the room. Labels applied to the fronts had dates written on them. Perhaps in the similar way an expiration date is written on a carton of milk? They varied in shade, from completely clear to muddy yellow brown. Why the hell did he keep these? "Who's there?" Growled a voice. Scout jumped. The Sniper shifted slightly, attempting to look back at the intruder while still keeping an eye on the BLUs. He soon breathed a sigh of relief. "Good, jus' you. Medic say you could leave?" Sniper pulled himself away from the window, standing and stretching. "You got yehself a nasty bump there."

"Yeah yeah, what're you, my Ma'? I'm fine, man." Scout shied away from the advancing man, but couldn't stop the Aussie from nearly ripping his head off as he wrenched the shorter's head around to see the wound. "'Ey! Getahff'a me!"

Sniper whistled lowly, pulling Scout's head every which way to examine him. Though the actual wound was hidden under mussed bandages, the swollen flesh made the bandages slightly convex. "That's one 'ell of a goose egg. Lucky you got just that."

"So everyone keeps tellin' me." Scout batted the hands away. Looking for some sort of outlet he walked over to the window and peered out of it. You really did have to be on point to be a Sniper: it looked like too much work to sit still all day long, staring at what appeared to him simply as fuzzy blue shapes. He grabbed for the rifle, disregarding the Aussie's cries, and peered down the scope. Suddenly he threw it to the ground. "Aww, jeez! Shoulda' warned me, ya' freakin'..."

Sniper quickly scooped up the equipment, nearly dropping it. "Tell anyone, boy, and I'll have yeh teeth on a necklace. Savvy?" He received a silent, albeit greatly disturbed, nod. "Good." Once the rifle was back in its labeled spot in the room - everything seemed to have some sort of label on it - he began to gather his things, working around the Scout as if he weren't there.

Scout became slightly annoyed. "You gonna pay any attention to me or what?"

"Sorry sheila, didn't mean to offend yeh. Want me to get yeh dress while I'm at it? Maybe pick up a bit of tea?" Sniper rose his pinkie and brought his hand to his lips, pantomiming the delicate art of properly drinking tea.

"Go suck a dick."

"I haven't recently come in contact with yeh Mum, but next time I see her I will."

The boy laughed. "That one was actually pretty good!"

"I been workin' on 'em," Sniper grinned.

"So you ain't even gonna ask me if I saw it or not?"

The man scoffed, removing a jar from the shelf and shoving it in a small satchel. "I know you didn't, lad, I ain't gotta ask ya!" The look of incredulousness upon Scout's face Sniper either didn't seem to catch, or chose to ignore, for he simply kept on in his doings. At least he did, until Scout literally threw himself upon the Aussie, nearly sending him sprawling to the ground.

"I sweah to God I saw it!"

"What'd 'e look like, then?"

Scout opened his mouth to speak- and it simply hung there in silence. He hadn't looked. _He hadn't fucking looked!_

"Yeh don't gotta pretend yeh went down there Scout. I understand." Sniper lay a hand on the shorter's shoulder. "Sometimes yeh just get too afraid or too excited and..." He paused, searching for the words. "Yeh just end up 'urtin' yehself is what'm tryin' to say. Since you can't remember what happened-" a break to see if Scout would disprove him, which he never did, "to ya', I'm guessin' you tried to take a dive and slipped and 'it yeh 'ead. Seems like a reasonable explanation for the bump ey?"

Scout had to restrain himself from punching Sniper in the face, instead settling upon clenching his fists. Yes, it was childish of him to be pouting over such a trivial matter. But he'd be damned if he was going to be labeled the boy who cried wolf.

"Go on and get some rest." The man glanced at the setting sun. It illuminated a wall of lingering clouds in the distance, highlighting them in various shades of orange that complimented the blue-ish gray tint. Impending rain. "We'll be fightin' at night tonight; 'ol Solly decided that 'e wanted to sleep late t'day. Don't see why 'e gets special privileges though," he spat. "Anyway, Medic'll probably make yeh take the day off. Use it wisely, mate." He winked slyly and tussled Scout's hair, grabbed his things, and bid Scout farewell.

Scout frowned and fixed his hair, setting his curl back into place.

Speaking of hair, where was his helmet?

"Weah's my damn helmet?"

Back in Medic's office, he found - much to his dismay - that when they found him unconscious, he wasn't wearing his protective covering. Bat, flashlight, everything else but his helmet and earpiece, which he'd decided to wear under his helmet in case something went screwy. Medic mentioned that the helmet was probably the only thing that prevented him from getting a concussion. And then he was quickly shooed out, for Medic had Medic things to attend to.

Scout retreated to his room per Medic's orders. Sniper predicted correctly. Medic wouldn't let him leave his room to even go get a bite to eat. He sifted through the mountains of dirty clothes populating his floor until he found his signature hat, and slipped that on his head. It wouldn't replace that helmet however. It had been his favorite one, signed by Vic Wertz, best Sox player of the 60's. He plopped down on his bed. Outside, the battle had already begun: against the star spattered sky flashed fire from muzzles and rockets, even a glib or two flying so high that it was visible from his window.

Each base contained a multitude of televisions as did the outside of bases. Connected to a large master computer hidden in the lowest most points of the base, they weren't the ones used for entertainment. They, in conjunction with who _knows_ how many cameras hidden in various parts on the field, recorded and showed stats from every BLU and RED member, from how many enemies they killed to how many times they had been killed themselves. Of course, not everything was displayed, for some of it _was_ exclusive to the Administrator. But what they didn't know never hurt them.

According to the television in Scout's room, with its flickering screen and signature black and white color, Sniper seemed to be leading this battle. Thirty-two kills compared to the usual leading man, Heavy, who only had twenty-three.

Soldier was dead last- actually below their Medic, whose lust for blood actually ended up with him only healing comrades if he absolutely had to. RED was going to catch an earful tomorrow.

"Go get 'em, Snipes," Scout found himself cheering quietly. He got up to turn the tv off.

At least, that was his goal until the headset on his desk suddenly screeched. "What the hell?" Gingerly he picked up the equipment, holding it to his ear. It had gone silent. To be honest, the headset he wore was just for show: Engineer had long since cut his access to the team channel. Apparently he talked too much for them. Assholes. So, he kept the matching pair in his room, just for occasion like this when he would lose one.

The boy picked up the extra set. He frowned, pressing the button to speak. "Uh. H... hullo?"

Soft static.

Then, a click.

"_Zis is Scout! Rainbows make me cry! Over!_"

Scout chucked the headset across the room with a yell. It hit the wall with a dull thud; even from a few feet away, he could hear the loud, nasally laughter peppered with snorts leaking from the hearing apparatus. He looked at the headset as if it had just become a person. That wasn't possible. He'd left it down there. And even if it had somehow floated back to the surface, it surely would have shorted out.

Which meant someone - something, rather - had possession of it. He lurched for the headset and flicked the 'Speak' button on. "Who the fuck is this?"

Silence. "_Moi? Why should I tell you, brat?_" Though the words were a little difficult to understand due to likely interference, there was no mistaking a French accent. Dammit. That meant the Spy had found it. His insides became cold. There went his chances of proving himself right.

Scout growled. "'Cause it's my fuckin' headset that yeh usin', I want some answers asshole!"

French spewed from the opposite end. "Speak in English!"

"_French is my native tongue. I do not demand zat you speak in whatever secondary language you have been taught by your pitiful schooling system._"

"Hey, don't you say a damn thing about my school system. My school system is the shit."

"_I highly doubt you even know what I am speaking of._" Man, this guy was good.

"Fuckin' BLU Spy! Gimmie back my headset! Shouldn't you be fightin'? Or are you too much of a cowad to show yeh face, like usual?" The boy sneered.

"_BLU? How dare you accuse me of being one of zose dizgusting BLU members, insolent boy!_"

"You... ain't BLU Spy?"

Sniper's story came back to mind. Something about once having a Spy of their own...

"_I do believe you are ze Scout zat visited me ze ozer night. Your intrusion was most unwelcome. Of course, you ran away like a little rabbit- zat was quite entertaining!_" The words were punctuated by that damned laugh.

Scout didn't hear it, though. He was already out of the door.

* * *

><p>Fighting at night brought a greater challenge to the men than fighting during the day. Stocky flashlights illuminated only so much, and the lights that warned the approach of dutiful trains were a risk to fight by. Scout watched missiles sail through the air like fireworks. Sporadic muzzle flashes seemed odd against the chorus of gunfire; an out of sync soundtrack to an action-packed movie, odd to take in all at once but carrying a sense of security and familiarity for the runner.<p>

He hadn't a moment to spare. Avoiding what rogue fire happened to careen his way, both enemy and ally fire alike to avoid suspicion, Scout made his way to the canal. If he focused on the distance he could make out which shapes darted to and fro; having worked with these men and their doppelgangers, it became easy to pick them out not only by height but by the way they moved. Two bodies arched through the air- probably their Demoman, fast yet lower to the ground, and an enemy Soldier climbing into the air as high as he possibly could and hoping a random rocket would get him a lucky kill. Heavies and their lumbering, gargantuan statures, a frenzied BLU Scout against their Medic, whose movements still showed hesitation with regards to his bodily health.

Such a strange feeling, watching instead of participating. Scout lowered himself to the ground. Hopefully they would all be too distracted with one another, cones of bright white dancing every which way in attempts to find someone using the darkness to their advantage, to notice him, but it never hurt to be too cautious.

It took five long, panic-filled minutes wrought with too many close calls until he got to the water. Still as pitch black as yesterday, but now choppy and teeming with activity. What sort of activity, he could only hope wasn't deadly.

Scout had already gotten one foot in the water before a blast of heat assaulted his back. He quickly turned to see an orange ball of fire heading towards his face, at which point he rolled away, barely avoiding banging his skull against the edge of the concrete. "Whoa, who the-?"

"Mmmph?" The BLU Pyro stated, looking for a moment at where the Scout had previously been, possibly dismayed that there wasn't a burnt husk where there should have been. It turned to face Scout, and made a harsh noise that sounded like a sigh. "Nmph, mmu nhnt mmhthrr. Mmrr mrrn nrr mtmr mnrnrr!"

"I got no idea what you just said, but man, I really don't got time to deal wit you!"

The Pyro either didn't understand Scout or didn't sympathize with him. It rose its weapon above its head, cackling evilly, and charged. Oh god, he was gonna die, he was gonna die-

The fire manipulator froze. The boy opened an eye, relaxing only a tiny bit out of the defensive position he'd taken. The BLU member swayed slightly before falling to the ground in a heap, dead. Headshot.

"_Scout_!" Shrieked the familiar Australian voice, just barley over the noise of battle.

Sniper. Thank god for snipers. He'd have to remember to thank him later. Scout waved at the man - who, by the jerky gestures, apparently wasn't too pleased that he was out of bed - and slipped under the water before anything else decided to make any advances.

Just like last time, he made his way through feel. Unlike last time, however, he didn't have a map, and every time he thought he saw something move through the water he swam to a corner. Of course, this did result in a few close calls in regards to having air, but everything worked out in the end. Twists, turns, ups, downs; it all became familiar. The water gradually ebbed, and the concrete embankment soon met determined hands.

Everything immediately went into a corner so whatever it was down there couldn't get to it. The silence was eerie; only the soft lapping of water against the edge, and whatever sounds he happened to make echoed off the rough black walls. This time Scout would see it, and this time he could rub it into Sniper's face, and all would be right with the world. Scout picked up a loose piece of concrete and chucked it into the water opposite the empty space. "I know yeh in there! Come on out! I just wanna talk." Realizing he was unarmed, and that he didn't want a repeat of last night to happen, the boy picked up the bat and cradled it close. Slowly, one foot over the other, Scout inched his way towards other side- but stopped in the middle. The flashlight stayed in the corner, lighting everything at an angle.

Soon, water shimmered. Small ripples broke the surface, as if there had been a coin tossed into it.

It burst through the surface violently, lunging for Scout. Too quick for him to react. Thick, slimy ropes seized every limb. His body was thrown against the wall, pinned there; Scout struggled as much as he could but, being a runner and not a fighter, there wasn't anything to be gained from it. A cold, sticky tendril danced across his cheek. Small nubs tickled the flesh; soft pops of suction as it withdrew. More slithered up his body, entering every crevice, some sneaking under clothing and stroking sensitive areas, leaving trails of slime and odd pinpricks of feeling because of what he guessed were suckers. "Hey! Don't touch there!" He shivered as one ran down the sides of his torso. The plea was met with laughter.

That same nasally laughter.

And then the runner dared to open his eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Bottom o' the Page.<strong>

I have realized that the characters in this story reflect how I actually play these classes in game. For instance, when I'm a Medic (which is usually most of the time), I believe that you should give credit where credit is due and thank the goddamn Medic. Medic tells Scout to thank everyone who helped him.

I play Sniper as people should play him: as support. If someone's being chased by any enemy and close to death, that's my priority to take them out, not take out various random players on the map. Sniper basically saved Scout. I never get headshots when I'm a Sniper but I imagine he would be a better sniper than I play him as.

Did you know that 'yo mamma' jokes have been around since Shakespeare? I know it was a stretch throwing them into this story but I can see Scout being the type to start that among the members.

Also. My Sniper seems too friendly for a Sniper. Maybe that's just me?

I wanted to describe the how kills would be registered and visible like how they are in the game to players. It seems like it would be a huge morale booster to see how many times you've killed a particular person, or how many kills you get in general, and so the members should have access to that. Not sure if it makes sense but hey.

Feel free to tell me everything that's wrong with this. I won't get mad. Promise.


	3. My Word

Within the culinary world it is a general rule that appearance is eighty percent of the meal, while taste accounts for the remaining twenty.

Ugly. Immediately the first descriptive word that came to mind, when taking in the features of this creature; a creature that would have immediately failed the qualifications of being socially acceptable or palatable. That particular word's definition, however, relies so heavily upon personal opinion it shouldn't have the strength behind it that it does. But everything is judged at least once in its life, by someone or something unfit to judge it.

What about what lies within a person?

It was difficult for Scout to get past those gnarled and yellow teeth and eyes, which, oddly enough, glowed slightly in the soft darkness. That coloration, solid, varying in shades of dark red, cut off in sections by the tracks of scars large and small that started at some unknown point and ended the same. The largest stretched from the outside of its mouth, horizontally across the cheek, down to the beginnings of a hypertrophic scar that disappeared over the shoulder. Some of them were open, festering, steadily leaking pus and plasma, while others had long since scarred over.

There existed no reason for him to look down any further, for what lay below the pelvis swarmed all across his frame. Tentacles, ranging from (and this was where Sniper was right, at least) the thickness of his torso to something slightly less thicker. Coated in slime, they weren't the most pleasant things in the world to have near _any _part of the body. Especially the places it was touching.

The boy closed his eyes tight again. Fingers caressed his cheek; at first he wondered why he was touching his own face, but after almost having a panic attack and thinking he'd gone "touch blind", a thought that it might have _hands _as well as whatever those tentacles were popped into his head.

"Please don't kill me," breathed the trembling man. It responded with a gruff grunt; consent that the boy wouldn't die, no, not yet. The tendrils slowed, stopped where they were. The hand moved up the cheek and a thumb pressed painfully into Scout's eyes. He screamed- the force certainly had not been enough to elicit such a reaction. The creature winced, his hand moving immediately to cover Scout's mouth as the sound became fading echoes off of the walls.

"I have no ambition of killing you, at zis moment," it leaned in and spoke softly. It paused before speaking once more, as if words had become an anomaly in this solitude. "My hearing. It is _sensitive,_ you rat. I would request zat you not shout." A hint of anger marked the words, but fascination overwhelmed. Scout nodded. It inhaled softly. "_Mon Dieu_. You _are_ real. My mind... no more tricks."

"Yeah, real as the nose on yeh face, buddy boy. See? I'm even whisperin' now. Now, c-could yeh let me go, maybe?"

The creature sharply silenced him. It liked control, dominance, characteristics of his old life that he could never shake but now expressed in a new manner: being forceful. A Spy's image got him paid- suave, sophisticated, controlled anger. Any hope of an image now was mere fantasy.

"Why are you here, boy?" It hissed through clenched, grinning teeth, squeezing him tightly around his mouth, confidence and place of mind flooding back into those aquatic veins. Scout's eyes bulged with a squeal, enough to, strangely, make him ease off. "_Pour me tuer_? To kill me?"

"N-No, I mean- I can't even undahstand what yeh sayin'-" The creature's head twisted sharply to the pool he had leapt from; a few ripples broke the surface, and he muttered lowly to himself in what Scout could only assume was French. Scout was flung to the ground, a child's plaything already devoid of entertainment. It moved, slithered, writhed, jerked; leapt into its moat at the other end of the division with an unnecessarily loud splash.

For those few moments in solitude, the RED member's brain worked at one hundred miles an hour. What was it going to do when it came back? Was Scout really in no form of danger, or had it lied? He swallowed at the thought. It didn't like noise. He'd just have to be quiet for the remainder of his short life-

The water burst. Out lurched a body, alive and thrashing, bellowing screams of terror. One tendril wrapped tautly around his neck.

_Snap. _

It lay limp. The body was tossed nonchalantly onto the concrete, creating a dry _ssssh _as the skin ripped away from bone.

Fat, rubbery snakes slithered out of the water and swarmed over the body, attending to their job before their master emerged. They proceeded to snap the bones into numerous pieces; the constant pops reminded Scout of time simply ticking away, with the occasional louder break that made him wince, as if he could feel the dead man's pain. Each tendril worked at its own pace, indifferent to the grave societal grievance they had just committed, mindless, it seemed, disassociated and out of sync in actions but similar in their goal.

The corpse was supported and served to the Spy, who then held it of his own accord under the arms like a child. Limbs dangled listlessly, head lolled forward at an inhuman angle. Blood leaked steadily from its nose and mouth. The creature had taken strange care to made sure no bones had punctured the flesh. If it hadn't had the consistency of a rag doll, Scout might have thought it simply _playing _dead.

The Spy's words were low but Scout was able to catch them. "_Une_ BLU. Hon. _C'est très décevant,_" it murmured almost sensually. It caught Scout's eye and smiled crookedly, raising the body so he could get a good look.

Scout choked back a scream as the face rolled back to meet him. It turned out that the BLU Sniper, nearly unrecognizable with most of the bones that made up his facial structure splintered and shattered and coated in a healthy amount of blood, had ended up being Spy's victim. Fallen into the water, most likely, in order to get away from their Pyro who did so like to root people out of their hiding places. Worry welled up in him. Not of their own Sniper: he knew well enough the dangers of being near the water. Maybe that was why he stayed so high and far away from the battle. But other members didn't. Their Heavy was a gullible old fool, too clumsy for his disproportionate self, and wouldn't stand a chance against how quick that thing was. Plus, he'd been told, their particular Russian wasn't a great a swim while holding his beloved Sasha- the weapon of which never left his personal sight.

He watched him cradle the body, bringing it so close to his chest it was almost a hug. It hiccuped, now drooling in thick red."I gotta warn 'em," the boy whispered.

Immediately the Spy's head jerked to the boy, eyebrows furrowed in discontent. "Zere will be no warnings issued." Scout seemed taken aback; he continued, a bitter smile breaking out on his face. "_Mon audition est magnifique_. You cannot say anyzing wizout _moi_ catching it, _ami_."

The creature's mouth opened. It sank its teeth into flesh and moderate amounts of bone, an explosion of crimson against the ground while it ripped off a jagged chunk of skin and began avidly chewing. Bits of gray matter and brain fell to the ground like crumbs. Undesirables; brain tasted like spongy nothingness and wasn't nutritious in the slightest. It spit out the shards of bone and cartilage like a normal man might spit out sunflower seeds. Scout couldn't look away. He would never be able to erase that image of flesh being stretched taut before snapping into his mouth, guttural snarls and hisses and moans of what his mind twisted into _pleasure_. It would be enjoying it, wouldn't it? People gave it the same euphoria as Scout when indulging in Bonk! Cola that he'd been trying to cut down on. It simply looked so... wrong, in his eyes.

Once BLU Sniper's face had become a cavity of blood, cartilage and muscle, the creature set to work on the limbs, saving the abdomen for last like the cherry on top of the cake. As he tore into the corpse, shredding the clothing on his back- it disappeared. Gone. The creature grasped at the air blindly where his meal once was.

"W-what happened to 'em?" The ex-Spy threw a look of boredom and exasperation at the Scout. It seemed to sigh with a roll of its broad shoulders, slinking slowly back into the water before speaking again.

"Respawn. It iz still active on ze body even if I happen to get a hold of it. Jus like zat- _disparu à jamais_." It gave a sweeping motion, lowering its hand back beneath the water. Scout nodded, oddly enough understanding somewhat. "Ze only problem wiz zat is how often I get fed. Zey do not remember _moi; _I have taken many a captive, but zey all look at me wiz ze same reproachful fear, standing blindly in- ah, ze expression- it iz, 'like a deer in 'eadlights', _non_? However, zey eizer know zat somezing iz in ze water, or have a natural aversion to it. You are ze first company I have ever had zat I 'ave not eaten in-" it hesitated, "well, since I can recall."

"Uh... thanks, I guess?" Scout rubbed the back of his head, and avoided any eye contact. Two questions burned at the front of his head- and while one was blatantly obvious, the other, even more so. He watched his captor sway side to side; he seemed distracted, maybe, possibly agitated. Aside from the churning waters it was dead quiet.

Fuck it all. He had to know.

"How'd you get like that?"

Such emotion, in one single glance. Burning with anger, icy with hate, dark with remorse and pity and feelings that were too numerous to pinpoint. A pained howl ripped from the creature's throat, but he made no move for the boy that had suddenly curled up into a ball awaiting for death.

Or, at least, all that had happened in his head. Scout cracked one eye to see the creature simply looking at him, expressive eyebrows now portraying bewilderment. It kept swaying from side to side, lazily, now, instead of angrily. It wasn't going to eat Scout's head off. In fact, even in the darkness and disregarding the natural glow of its teeth and eyes, it looked like it'd brightened up in the more figurative sense. It had certainly become calmer after its meal. First appearances could always be made up for. "Ze story is... _hon_... not for ze faint of heart, _ami_, but I will tell you if you so dezire."

Scout's heart fluttered. Like opening a Christmas Day present and revealing the mystery inside, the initial joy prior to breaking the toy into pieces and receiving the unsympathetic apology from mom and dad (and no new toy). Only vaguely did that familiar phrase register in his head, too focused on this creature to care. "Tell me: do we- ah, do you- still have a Medic? Fritz, I believe, waz his name when I knew of him."

"Yea', uh, I think? Dunno if his name is Fritz'a'not though. We don't tell each uddah our names, y'know? Kinda big?" Scout made a depiction with his hands. "Little bit on the asshole side, really German?"

The corners of its mouth twitched, attempting to create a smile. "Zat is_ all_ Germans, _ami;_ but _oui_, zat description does seem accurate." He paused.

"Are... you sure you want to listen?"

Scout shrugged. "I ain't got nowhere to be anytime soon."

* * *

><p>It was the third time that day he'd been to the Medic's.<p>

He flung the door open with his free hand. The hall to the gray, swinging doors of the medical bay seemed endless, personal torture found amusing by some higher being. He removed the handkerchief from his nose briefly. Condition still the same, rivulets of bright red blood streaming down his face, a little splashing onto his freshly pressed red suit jacket. "_Merde._" He brushed idly at the new stains on his suit as if that would help in some fashion. Dammit. Back to the dry cleaners tomorrow.

Fritz always seemed to know when he was there. "Aww, did mein_ Liebling _hurt himself? Oh, let me take a look at you," came the taunting voice, though the man stayed hunched fittingly over the prototype to one of his new guns. The Spy grimaced. Due to the frequency of their visits, the German had taken to calling him cutesy pet names and treating him like his significant other. It shouldn't have bothered him; that's just how Fritz was, possessing that strange ability to get under other's skin very easily, but the words hung heavy in the air, suffocating him in a noxious cloud of sarcasm.

He lay down on the cot and turned his head up to the ceiling, careful to keep the rag still. White birds watched him from the rafters tentatively, curiously cooing softly, familiar with the man but not familiar enough to stop shitting on his suit. How the damn things could stay alive in the coldness of Barnblitz he didn't know. "It came on quicker zis time. Ze bleeding." Fritz paused and looked concerned for a moment then shrugged, turning back to his gun.

"A progressive disease such as yours is prone to doing zat, I am afraid," said the man, suddenly pushing away from his desk with enough force to send his chair rolling to the cot.

The Spy peered over the top of his nose. A sigh. "Do you _ever_ have anyzing good to tell me, Fritz?"

The Medic snorted indignantly. He sat the patient up and with his help removed the dirty suit jacket. He rolled up the pinstripe sleeve, dabbing a handy yellow cotton swab on his shoulder. "Vat do you _vant_ me to tell you? Zat I can cure you viz a magic vave of my Medigun? Scheisse, I vould tell you zat you vere spending too much time viz ze Scout." A moment of silence cut through the two men. Respect for the little bastard that "accidentally" got a shot to the skull by the unsteady hand of someone in great distress. "Vorry yourself very little, Michel. Ve vill be getting a new one soon. Bettah zan ze old vone, ja? Hold still for a moment. Zis might sting." It was still nice of Fritz to warn him of the needle sticks, though he'd long since been dull to the pain.

"_Oui_, it does seem so..." Michel replied hollowly, watching blindly the doctor's rummaging through his cabinets and cabinets of vials of every color attempting to find the spot for antiseptic. Fritz often joked that there wasn't a liquid that had been invented that he didn't have. Judging from the size and width of the containers, packed to the point of some falling out each time it was opened, the Spy couldn't help believe him. One of those was the formaldehyde used in the Scout's preservation.

"Actually, I am somevat glad zat you started bleeding," Fritz said, the Spy immediately throwing him a steely glare, "It brought you here, didn't it?" He hissed in retort. "I have somezing I need to speak to you about. Concerning your condition." He hopped up on the cot parallel to the Frenchman's. Spy propped himself up on his elbows, wary of this man's words.

"In Germany, zere have been many advances in medicine since my... absence, from ze country. It appears zat ze sixties are ze new age of medicine. Two doctors_ somehow_ came up viz ze idea to use radiation as therapy in combination viz new medication. Ze rays slow ze growth of ze bad cells, at ze same time killing off cells zat might grow viz ze same defects vile ze medicine makes sure zat you don't, vell, die. So far, it has proved successful. Of course, it isn't perfect; but zere are only minor side effects, small zings zat subside given enough time. Already ze idea has spread to America. I vanted to see if I could get my hands on ze equipment and try it on you. I cannot do much viz ze equipment I have currently. I had zought about petitioning to ze Administrator for it. Given your consent, of course-"

"Do it."

"-I vouldn't dream of doing anyzing vizout your..." The Medic paused, Spy's words catching up to him. "You haven't even let me finish yet." The Frenchman slung his legs over the cot and grabbed his jacket. He pulled out his disguise kit from the inner pocket, withdrawing a cigarette and lighting it in one fluid motion. He knew Fritz hated him when he smoked in the bay. Contaminated things, he said.

He inhaled slowly and breathed out just the same, gaze distant. "Bad zings happen to bad people, _mon ami._ We zink it never will, but it all catches up with us in ze end. I have always had a fear of dying, as any sane man would, regardless of ze strange privilege of immortality we possess on zis field of battle. Leukemia is a bitch of a disease; a... disgrace to die by." He smiled bitterly. "I have dreamed of being killed by a better man, not an ironic form of suicide. If ze administrator should have a problem wiz it, zen I will go to her myself." The words had become dark, slow and heavy. Michel snatched up the coat, quickly turned and made for the door.

"I expect everyzing to be in order by next week."

And everything was indeed in order in one exact week. Approval had been swift: it would cost Team Fortress industries less to ship all necessary equipment in than to waste time looking for a new Spy and propositioning him. Three large trucks with faceless men showed up, quickly assembling everything how they had been instructed to only to have Fritz take it all apart. Each piece was examined; some were 'fixed', though only he knows how. No one was allowed in the bay during that time, though their doctor had no ambition to leave. Any injuries on or off the field were treated by the most basic of medical training. By the end of each day the men resembled mummies, freshly-turned-pink gauze wrapped loosely around large cuts; and children's band-aids for more minor injuries, the definition of minor at each man's discretion.

Spy had been given orders to limit his activity. Stubborn Frenchman that he was that didn't seem to be an option, especially since BLU's Heavy often proved a good deal of trouble in the frigid area due to being conditioned to it. Without their own Medic, RED Heavy didn't stand a chance. Spy had to cut in somewhere.

Michel's health declined sharply. Cold weather brought about the flu, froze things so they became sharp and dangerous. It seemed everything he did resulted in a laceration that never stopped bleeding. Temporary fixes of yards and yards of gauze that Sniper was all too generous with (he had assigned himself to the job of stand-in Medic and no one bothered to challenge him) could only do so much. The sounds of work piercing through the darkness of night, sporadic sparks of light peeking through crevices kept him going. Assured him that their Medic was hard at work trying to save _him._ Relationships were silly. Were they friends? Perhaps, in some diluted sense of the word: it was a doctor's job to keep their patients alive as long as possible. He was a patient. It made sense logically.

One day, the noises stopped. The Medic emerged from his haven. Gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, grinning like a maniac; he'd finished what he'd set out to do. During ceasefire, as Spy casually sucked away at a cigarette, the doctor came up swiftly behind him with rag in hand.

The Spy drifted back to consciousness as a body might rise from the bottom of the sea. His head throbbed; the feeling all too familiar from the days of being a rookie. Chloroform. He'd let his guard down so far as to let someone get _that _close to him.

A shadow worked dutifully over him. Its mouth moved, though the words he couldn't make out. Automatically Spy attempted to reach for his revolver, but the motion was quickly stopped. "Ah, you are avake," came the low German drawl, "I vas afraid I might have killed you. I never vas too good at judging how much chloroform goes on a rag." Medic's voice was oddly soothing. Spy relaxed slightly as the gloved hand released his wrist. Only then did he notice the oxygen mask attached to his face. He removed it just as the tank was unhooked.

"_Dieses?_"

The Medic suddenly wheeled around sharply. "_Nein, das ist einer!" _He shoved a red finger at a cabinet. A man moved towards it.

The previous voice was too light to be their Medic's, though the German accent was unmistakable. Spy jolted up and only briefly caught a glance of the RED doppelganger before leaping off of the table - Ambassador in hand - and aiming it expertly at the BLU's head. That Medic immediately froze and placed his hands in the air. "_Haltet ihn auf! Bitte! Schnell!_" He cried in a trembling voice. Fritz dove for the Frenchman in an attempt to wrench the gun out of his hand. However, being fully conscious, Michel hopped away, switching his target between the both of them.

"Don't you dare shoot him _or _me if you plan on living," Fritz said, motioning uselessly for the man to put the gun down. "I assure you, he vill not hurt you. Michel, give your greetings to Wilhelm. Just shipped in a few days ago for ze BLU team, or so he has told me." Michel kept the weapon pointed at Wilhelm for what seemed like an eternity before slowly placing it back in his coat. Wilhelm sighed heavily, on the verge of tears as he spoke, hand over the spot where his heart lay a few ribs below.

"It is, ah, nice to meet you, Herr Michel." Spy noted that his accent was much heavier than Fritz's. He spoke slower as well, tasting the words before speaking them, unsure of their correctness.

Spy nodded once. Completely ignoring Fritz's request to sit back on the cot he strolled around the room, touching the cold pieces of metal. He'd never seen anything like them before. "Tell me what zese are," he demanded, looking back to both the men. "I want to know exactly what will be curing me."

RED Medic cleared his throat, scowling. "You vould not understand all ze complicated terminology-"

"I do not care. Tell me." Michel prodded a dangling tube. BLU Medic winced, each scrape of his gloves against some surface, tracing of every wire eliciting a noise. Fritz barked something in German at Wilhelm, who quickly ceased any further interjections. Fritz explained. He explained until his face turned blue, until Wilhelm began to doze off. He elaborated on the concentrated rays at the end of the machine because of the lenses placed in such an order as to look like only one concentrated spot. When presented with the question of its effectiveness considering the size the Medic proceeded to explain how that didn't matter. At a time, Spy stopped listening. The Frenchman noted that it ultimately resembled an over-sized Medigun after the modifications.

"Zat is enough," Spy eventually said, motioning for him to stop. "I have heard enough to put my full faith in zis. I trust you, docteur." He stripped per Medic's orders and put on a thin paper gown. "A little... loose, _non?_" He said, twirling around in it and not quite appreciating the slit down the back.

Once on the table - the previously unnoticed very _cold _table - the man was strapped down. "For safety purposes, of course," was the half-hearted reason. The Medic administered a shot and handed him a small cup with two pills in it, which were quickly downed. A basic examination was made, and apart from the whole Leukemia thing Spy appeared to be fairly healthy.

"I... have not tested zis out on a man, you do realize, Michel," the Medic said, voice soft with concern. He sighed heavily and looked to briefly Wilhelm. The man scratched away wildly at a clipboard, monitoring glowing meters and humming gauges. Fritz shook his head slowly. "I am sure you are vondering vhy he is here. I vill just say zat it isn't correct medical procedure to do zings on one's own. If somezing goes wrong, you have to have back up. I do not vant to kill you, Michel. Believe me zat his presence is for your own good."

The Spy nodded, closing his eyes as the rising hum of the machine filled his ears. "I understand."

* * *

><p>"I fear you have not been paying attention, <em>mon <em>Scout."

Scout jerked his head up from between his legs. He looked around wildly before realizing he was still underneath the battlefield, creature before him with arms folded tautly across his chest. "Uh, no, I been listenin'. You did the thing with th' machine and the two Medics and... stuff. Shit. Am I kind of close? Just a little bit? Fuck, I was listenin'. I just ain't good at summaries. Ask my English teachah." To his surprise the creature wasn't angry, more amused than anything else. That ticked Scout off.

"You remind me of my old Scout. _Vif. __Énergiques. _So spirited." Michel smirked, not quite a smile. "I do believe it is your _bedtime, ami,_ as well as my own.I do not want to keep you awake much longer. Children need zier sleep." Before Scout could retort on how he was totally an adult because he was well over eighteen, the creature slipped away beneath the surface.

Scout rushed to the pool, peering over the edge into the darkness. The shadow of the creature was receding. He thrust a hand into the water, scooping it away as if he were digging. "Hey! I wanna hear the rest of it!"

The shape darted back to the surface but only its mouth actually touched air. It grinned. "Tomorrow. Return tomorrow."


	4. A Day Upside

Eyes darted to and fro with increasing anticipation. Hushed lapping against the edge of the waterways; whispers he couldn't make out, but possessed an omnipotent air. He turned his head quickly, froze, an animal caught in proverbial headlights. Nothing. The battle had long since passed: the moon looked down from high in the beautiful midnight sky, fingers dancing across the water in bands of silver, smiling sweetly upon the mischievous boy.

So much had happened in the sliver of time in the day he'd been gone. Scorch marks and blood stains painted the concrete reminiscent of a Pollock piece. His eye caught the remarkably white glow of the capture point within the building. No team had been able to take Well. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing Scout didn't care to find out, as long as he hadn't been there to catch Soldier's verbal ass-whupping. One of the main display screens close to the entrance of RED's base showed (in bright, bold red letters) the Administrator's disappointment in her mercenaries and the points of the day. Their Heavy had passed Sniper in kills only slightly, but just the top two of BLU somehow had more kills than both Heavy, Sniper, and Medic (who was in third) and still hadn't managed to overtake them. Scout actually considered how much of an asset he was.

The eruption of sound as Scout withdrew himself from the chilly waters made him cringe, paranoid to the point of pausing with each movement just in case something happened to be lurking about. It was against the rules to be out this late but certainly not improbable to see someone scampering about. He flopped onto the edge of the waterway like a beached whale. Fingers danced along his spine and urged him to turn, turn as quickly as he could and run back to base regardless. The human mind was a cautious entity; why risk the potentiality of danger when it could all be avoided?

Scout finally relented and looked over his shoulder once more in his five-yard-away trek from the water to the base. Considering the shortness of the distance, he shouldn't have been so skittish. Then again, he'd had that same thought right before he almost became a roasted Scout-on-a-stick.

He touched areas of his person, made sure all of his supplies were with him. He'd left the flashlight down there. Spy could see in the dark just fine Scout knew, but considering there was only one tiny, faulty waterproof light on the wall, he thought it'd be nice to leave him with more. Maybe Engie could take a look at it. The men were, after all, basically thrown there without any help. Necessities, such as food, water, and ammunition - perhaps the occasional new weapon, though many hoops had to be leapt through to even petition for one - were always available. One phone call and it was there within the hour, day or night. Things such as heat, electricity, entertainment, and general privileges that would keep them from killing one another were completely at their discretion. And considering how old these places were, without constant upkeep, things started to flicker fast.

Scout certainly wasn't in any hurry to get back. Stars were a rarity where he came from. There were always too many lights and too many curse-words being spewed for the stars to come out of hiding. But here, sans the streetlights... Scout had always been told that he would never know what beauty was until he was much older, but this struck a chord in his heart, you know?

He leaned against the fence, arms folded, gaze lost in thought. Since both teams had lost, it was customary for the Administrator to take in the Soldiers on Ceasefire and ask them where they wanted to go out of five places. Their teams would then vote on it, and whatever got the most votes was final. It almost never happened. Usually because the Soldiers couldn't resist yelling at each other for petty reasons and the Administrator had no such patience for it.

But Scout would find out when he went back to base.

If he went back to base, that was.

His body slid down the side of the fence. The air was still warm and buzzing with the aftermath of the fight, and the fact that'd he'd swam the equivalent of a mile underwater made for a physically - and considering everything that Spy had just told him - mentally exhausted Scout.

Everything became fuzzy as the runner drifted peacefully off to sleep, thinking of peaches and octopuses.

* * *

><p>"Wake up, boy."<p>

Scout vaguely felt something nudge him. Not giving two fucks, he simply brushed it away and turned over. Fabric caressed his skin, and he realized that he was comfortably toasty. "I'm sleepin' here. Fuck off," he managed to slur. "I don't have time feh this..."

"I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS HOLY AND PATRIOTIC IF YOU DO NOT WAKE UP I WILL SHOVE MY BOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU WILL BECOME MY NEW LEG."

Scout's face met the unforgiving hard-wood floors of his RED base bedroom. He struggled against the impenetrable covers of his bed, screaming all the while for fear of never being able to see the light of day again. "Stop fooling around, MAGGOT." Suddenly the covers were gone, whisked away by the large, calloused hands of an American. In addition to Soldier so rudely invading his... room? The Medic and Engineer were also smiling smugly down at the ball of confusion.

Scout scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping while trying to get himself straightened. "Whaddya'll doin' here," he drawled, rubbing his eyes sleepily, "and why am I in my room? Last I remember I was sleepin' nice and right outside. Uh. I think." Hell, had everything been a dream?

Medic adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. He looked odd without his coat, though even in the early morning still presented himself in neatly ironed clothes. Habits and all that. "Soldier discovered you early zis morning vhen he vent for his morning stroll, as you said, comfortably resting outside. After determining whezer or not you vere alive - for your lips vere as blue as ze Danube - ze Heavy scooped you up and brought you in. I took ze liberty of changing you into your pajamas."

Scout grimaced. "That's gay, dude. All lookin' at my junk and shit," the boy mumbled, snatching his covers back from Soldier and throwing himself back on his bed. He wrapped himself so tightly he resembled a cocoon.

A minute or so passed, and Scout peeked over his shoulder. No one had moved. "You all can leave, ya' know. Thanks and whatever. Get the fuck out."

Soldier snatched up the blankets yet again, simultaneously unwrapping Scout and giving him carpet burn at the same time.

Engineer chuckled at Scout's expense. "Sorry boy, ain't got no time for sleepin' anymore. Got a war an' all to fight. Breakfast's done, go eat, we're due on the field in an hour or so. Medic figures since you're well enough fer runnin' out, yer well enough to fight."

"But it's like, Sunday or somethin'!"

The Texan snorted and tossed a leather bound book at Scout, turning to leave with the other two. "Start prayin', it'll do ya' some good, kid." He picked it up. A Bible, with the name 'Dell' engraved on the cover. The door creaked closed and clicked shut behind them.

Scout could only groan defiantly as he shuffled his ass to the bathroom and performed his morning duties. Scalding water assaulted his body like Pyro's flames in the shower stall; only vaguely did he care, too lost in thought. Specifically, where in the world this water came from. Of course. Well's sewer system. He reached gingerly for the knob, shut the shower off, and proceeded to scream because holy shit that water had been _fuckin' __hot_. Spy filled his mind to near bursting capacity, to the point of being unable to take a piss or even brush his teeth correctly. Everything he'd told him, everything he could tell him; Scout had so many questions! "I gotta be back tonight!" It punctured any current thought like a needle to a balloon and his half-done hair suffered for it. But between the battle and sleep - for as much as the need to see Spy was there (not in a lovey-dovey way, don't be mistaken) he really did want to fight - when would he have the time?

It wasn't long, even at the 'slow' speed that he shambled about in the mornings, before he entered the mess hall. Everyone much less enthusiastic than Scout. Demoman had literally fallen asleep in his bowl of Mann Co. oatmeal, though whether due to already being drunk or exhaustion was anyone's guess. Light chatter between the more friendly members kept the tension from being too thick. A couple looked briefly at Scout when he swaggered in. "Faggots," Scout customarily greeted the group, though with an uncommon pep behind it, taking his spot and digging into the flavorless slop.

Scout felt Soldier's eyes burning a hole through him, and he knew it was Soldier because his stocky body was stretched half-way across the table. Not just 'eying', glaring at him through the Grade-A (for American) plastic helmet. Soldier audibly growled. "What's wrong with you?"

"Huh? Nuttin'! I'm just eatin', here; watsamattah wit' that?" Came the off-guard reply.

"You _never _eat breakfast," he snarled in response. "You always _whine _and _complain_ about how it ain't your _mama's_ cookin'."

Even Scout was surprised. He must not have been thinking. "U-uh, y'know, well, it a-ain't that bad t'day or somethin'-"

Soldier stood and slammed his shovel on the table, drawing everyone's attention. Shit. Angry at nine in the morning.

"You see how he doesn't speak to his superior officer out of line? You maggots should all be doing the same! Looks like Scout could teach you pussy-foots a thing or two. This one's on his way to being a _fine _soldier!" Soldier slapped Scout on the back in a congratulatory manner. It felt more like taking a sledgehammer to the face. "Fritz, whatever you did to this kid, you need to do it to everyone else. An _obedience_ injection or something. Finish your slop, ladies! It's almost time for _**WAR!**_"

The characteristic battle cry that so frightened enemy men came out of the Soldier's gaping maw, and he inflicted further brain damage upon himself by banging his shovel against his helmet. The entire team seemed to simultaneously sigh as they all scattered to prepare - though, Scout did stay to take a few more bites.

It wasn't long before the team was lined up and ready to go kick some BLU ass. However, because the map issue still had not been solved, all of Soldier's rallying for battle amounted to nothing: the boss lady had requested his presence. Dell made his last calibrations on his dispenser while everyone idled around, waiting for Soldier to return. Demoman and Sniper took turns taking swigs from the Scot's brown bottle, and Heavy, Pyro and Medic seemed to be having a nice chat.

Lacking anything better to do - he certainly wanted to avoid Sniper and Demo for as long as he could, as it seemed they hadn't noticed him quite yet - Scout leaned against the dispenser. Dell looked up at him briefly, then smiled. "Hey, genius, I need a dispenser right... here," said Scout, pointing to a spot a couple inches away from his left foot. "See, where you put it just ain't doin' it. I don't get them good dispenser vibes when it's in this spot."

The Engineer chuckled, popping open the glass and twisting the knobs on the gauge. "Y'sure are good at small talk, boy. Lotta' charm. No wonder Sniper seems t'have taken a likin' to ya'."

Scout furrowed his eyebrows. He leaned down close and snuck a quick peek at the Australian. Sniper's cheeks had a light tinge of red to them, and he'd wrapped his arm around a barely conscious Demoman. Demoman's drink must have been pretty strong to transform a lone wolf like that into a pal in just a few swigs. "Whaddya mean, "takin' a likin' to me?" I don't undahstand. I ain't gay."

The Texan laughed again and pulled away from his workings briefly to look up at Scout. "Gay? You're about as smart as a bag a'rocks covered in oil aren't ya', boy? No, dummy; a likin'! Seems he thinks you're his friend or somethin'. Well, hell, almost like a son considerin' how much older he is than you and how young you are an' all. Sniper ain't never had a real family, bein' a- oh, what's he call it? Assassin or whatever. So, he finds solace in takin' care of you. It's almost like ya'll are blood."

Something in the boy's stomach flipped. He groaned softly, placing his hand on his abdomen. The image of the BLU Sniper. "Yeah, blood... right. Fucked up choice'a woids there, Hardhat, but alright. Oh yeah, here," he pulled out the Bible, "y'can have this back. No pictures."

Engineer took it without even looking, nodding slowly. "Don't read much, I'm guessin'?"

Scout shrugged. "I nevah was really inta' that religion stuff. Ma' made us wake up early every Sunday feh church, and that guy who was talkin' all th' time always made me fall asleep. Which got me inta' trouble," he made a circular motion with his hand, "and yeh get where I'm goin' with this. Can't see how ya' do it, beefsteak."

The Dispenser coughed and gave a small whirr of life, and the Engineer smiled, giving the machine a loving pat on the side. He stood up, though there wasn't much difference in height, and dusted his overalls off. "Lots of patience with these things gives ya' a lot of patience in life, boy. Everythin' you do can help ya' improve somethin', in one way or another, and what ya' need to strive the most fer is patience. That's what my Pa' always said to me. Remember that. It'll get'cha pretty far."

For some reason, that made Scout feel all fuzzy inside; though feelings were for pussies and Scout would never admit that he felt anything than awesomeness. "Yeah, I'll do that. Heya, look, Solly's back!"

The runner's arm pointed to a figure over the horizon. Soldier was, indeed, making his way towards the men, shadow stretching across the Earth as he walked with the rise of the sun - but something, just something, seemed off. His shoulders slumped forward instead of being held in a high, regal position, and a scowl (not too out of place, of course) marred his features. A hand occasionally reached up to caress his stubbled jaw and a subtle flinch came from the touch. The opposite hand held a folder of documents that threatened to flutter to the ground at any given moment, just barely kept in place by some sort of miracle. "You uh, you alright dere, helmet head?" Soldier jumped as if he hadn't realized Scout had ever existed.

"Uh, y-yeah, just fine, Private," he cleared his throat, straightening himself. "Return to your stations, men."

"Whot stations?" Slurred the Demoman, "we been sittin' here for Lassie knows how long! I've almost run out of me booze, an' Medic says I gotta watch me intake, or I hafta switch to the watered down swill that ye Americans drink!" He spit violently on the ground, and the effort proved too much for his intoxicated body as gravity took him along with. "Oh, me achin' head," he groaned. "Ah, wha' were we talkin' aboot?"

The team seemed to roll their eyes simultaneously. "So, what'd she say? Map changin'? We gonna fight t'day or what?"

A wild alarm answered the question in the simplest way possible. Everyone scrambled to collect their things. Scout was the first one out.

Things started slowly at first. The Heavy Weapons Guys were startled, to say the least, and any form of support lacked sufficient time to set things up; Scout was all over this! He dodged the bumbling BLU Soldier and sent him off with a healthy _crack!_ to the skull, the first kill of the day. The Announcer screeched out Scout's achievement, spurring him on faster. He scrambled up the stairs, blasting a particularly annoying Pyro away with two close-range meat shots and clearing the point off for him before it even saw him coming.

"C'mon, c'mon..." He danced wildly on the central most point, bringing his legs all the way up to his chest while he ran in place. Center always took the longest to change color. His chest was heaving; he hadn't even run the equivalent of a mile, and just from those two men his body had exhausted almost all of its adrenaline. It felt like it had been ages since he'd been back on the field. He wondered if Spy ever felt like this, missed it, even...

Noise, increasing from a dull roar to an unbearable cacophony of unintelligible yelling and screaming assaulted his ears. They were getting close! The spinning circle below his feet had only reached half way. A rocket shot through one of the doors to his right, catching the ceiling and causing Scout to hit the dirt. He couldn't tell if it was enemy or ally - it was the only way he could be safe either way. Still, no one from either team had made it quite in yet. "Come on, stupid point, come _on!_"

"Comin' at'cha, dummy!"

BLU's Scout! Shit! He totally forgot about him! RED turned a one-eighty to face his BLU doppelganger. He was indeed 'coming at him', brandishing what looked like a bat with rusted spikes on it and a grin as wide as the devil's. "Oh, fu-!" He attempted to dodge and fire off his trusty Scattergun, but BLU was too close. At the same time the bat embedded its spikes square in the stomach he pulled the trigger. Red painted the ground accented with gray matter. At such a close proximity, the Scattergun had enough force to take BLU's head clean off - but certainly not without a price. Scout fell to the ground in shock and... pain? His hand folded over his stomach. What _was _that thing? He withdrew his palm a few seconds later. Blood saturated his shirt, the culprits being a couple good-sized chunks taken out of his belly. "_Shit_, man," Scout hissed. The first-aid kit wasn't more than a trip down the stairs. But he wasn't leaving until he capped this point.

_Ding! _The circle above and below faded to Red. "Yes!" Scout jumped up, one hand on his stomach and the other snatching up his gun. He lowered himself down (too much of a rebel to use the stairs) to grab the kit when the very same Soldier whose face he'd bashed in sailed into the room. It took only a couple moments before a crocket hit Scout directly in the back, sending his body parts flying every which-way and the rest of him back to respawn.

The boy blinked, not quite realizing what had happened yet. White burned his eyes. A gentle hum warmed the air.

"Oh _goddamnit!_"

That was alright. Only killed once. He'd had worse. Way worse. One simple little stupid kill wasn't going to ruin his fan-damn-tastic day. He dashed out of the white-walled room, past the Engineer whose sentry beeped loyally on the home point, past the defending Demoman and camping Sniper. The Heavies were going at it, faithful Medics behind them. Soldiers pirouetted in the air. A dying wail - an enemy Spy had found his target. Probably their own Pyro, a man with a one-track hunter's mindset and a horrible disposition for never watching his back. The central point still belonged to RED; any advance on BLU base would be met with fierce opposition. And he was ready.

Scout rounded the corner of the train car blocking the way, jumping with unexpected grace over a platform. A shot ricocheted off of the ground next to him, an angry BLU first being shook his way from the window. The runner stuck his tongue out boyishly while strafing from side to side just before the bridge. "Can't hit what'cha can't see, dumbass!" The Sniper didn't take to that well. An object sailed out of the window and shattered a bit to the left of him in a golden shower.

As Scout foolishly taunted before the Bushman, he completely missed the enemy twin coming up from behind him.

It was high-velocity Scout-on-Scout action as BLU slammed into RED in a football-style tackle from behind.

The momentum sent the pair tumbling into the water. A huge bubble of air left his lungs, both in surprise and impact. No time to think, had to get out of there fast! RED Scout twisted his body around to face BLU Scout. He swung his arm, connecting a slow fist to the enemy's jaw; BLU didn't take it well, reflexively kicking the other away. The impact made him gasp for air, instead taking in a huge gulp of water. Frantically he paddled to the surface, breaking the top and taking in a huge gasp of breath before BLU pulled him back down, essentially switching their positions. Each time Scout attempted to escape the watery prison the motion was blocked, the same pair of cleats repeatedly shoving him lower and lower. And Scout was running out of air, fast.

_Spy! _The thought struck him like a bat to the stomach. The channels leading to Spy had pockets of air in them, and that stupid Scout would never find him if he went there. RED dove lower into the darker parts of the canal. He didn't care what the doppelganger decided to do, Scout was going to survive.

Low on residual oxygen, Scout knew time was not on his side. But being fast was what he made millions of dollars a year for.

Familiar rights, deja-vu as he twisted left and down. Air filled the Bostonian's lungs when he finally arrived at the chamber of the beast. He'd decided not to take a detour to the pockets of air like a dumbass, his fear of getting lost too great and confident in his painful, burning lungs that he'd have enough air to make it to Spy.

A coughing fit ensued and Scout doubled over. Too much of a good thing, possibly, and he _was_ carrying at least half of his scrawny body weight in water. "Spy?" He choked out between harsh gasps, "you heah? I... I came back... if yeh remembered. I mean, I was runnin' from someone, but... I made it." Silence followed. Probably just off eating some guy, Scout thought with a grimace, he'd probably be back soon. Hopefully.

He curled in up in the same spot against the wall. The spot was almost warm, like he'd left it - it wasn't like it'd seen human contact in a long time. Scout reached over for the light he'd left down there, turning the heavy object over and over. Spy had kept it. Not only that, it still worked: apparently Mann Co. made things that functioned some of the time, and weren't just shitty all of the time.

Time drew on and on, and still no Spy. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes, but to the man whose livelihood was being quick it transformed into hours. To have time alone to himself - knowing that not everyone was out to accost him for even the tiniest thing - it was true serenity. Concern for the battle melted away. He could process coherent thoughts _slowly _and didn't have to think at the drop of a hat. His eyes closed and his head bowed, resting in his arms and on his knees. This was nice. He could even sleep here, maybe, if he got past the fact that someone's guts had probably touched the same spot he sat in.

It couldn't have been more than two minutes later that abrupt splashing settled the nervousness in Scout's stomach. Good, Spy was here. Not that he worried about him or anything. "Man, took ya' long enuff, I been heah feh hours-"

"What d'fuck is this place?"

_Oh, dear god._

RED snapped his head up so fast he gave himself whiplash. There was BLU Scout, utterly enthralled at this new discovery, evidently oblivious to the opposite that was there with him and unknowing of the danger that lurked just on the other side of the division.

"Holy shit! 'Dis is kinda cool! It's like the Batcave, but without all the bat-shit! Hey, found ya' - you make this yehself?"

"No! I mean- dude, you gotta get outta heah!" Scout attempted to shove the doppelganger back into the water. BLU didn't take too kindly to this and shoved his hands away, hopping to the other side of the room to explore more. "It ain't safe feh yeh to be heah! I don't know when he's comin' back, but-"

Other Scout scoffed, picking up the flashlight. "Who? Medic? Heavy? That guy you got a huge crush on? Yeah, don't think I don't know 'bout him, chucklenuts, yeh as gay as the day is long." RED Scout considered letting him stay. "'Sides, you jus' wanna keep this all feh yehself like a fatty fat. Share wit'cha bro, ya' know?"

The main Scout snatched the flashlight away, frowning deeply. "I ain't'cha bro, and I ain't gonna share nuttin' wit'cha. Now, 'fore I have to bash it in'ta yeh head,_ leave_!" The command reverberated off of the walls, jumbling around the small space and in his ears until it finally died down into an uneasy whisper.

BLU Scout frowned. He raised his arms to his chest, palms out in a sign of defense, taken aback by just how angry this guy was over nothing. "Alright, alright, jeez," the runner whispered, "no need to get yeh panties in a bunch. Ain't no reason to yell, netha'. Can I go out the otha' way?"

"I'm afraid not."

The Scouts stopped breathing. RED turned around - slowly - to see a very displeased Spy looking down at him, rubbery body dripping with water. He hadn't even heard it come out, and he was pretty sure that Spy didn't take too well to intruders in its den - relevant company excluded. "Spy, I - uh - I can explain-!"

"_WHAT THE** FUCK** IS THAT THING_?"

An inhuman wail of pain erupted from the beast's throat. It snatched up the BLU runner, throwing him at the opposite wall. A sickening _crack _came from the boy's spine from the force; he hacked up a bubble of blood, body sliding too slowly down the concrete. He looked as if he tried to speak but his mouth moved wordlessly, eyes wide with fear. Red spittle dribbled onto his shirt. "Little boys should not go searching for zings zey are warned to abstain from." Spy advanced upon his prey, teeth bared and claws prepared. It snapped up the damaged man and held him just like a small child. "I have never had Scout before," the creature drawled with a grin, "such quick little _lapins._ Too _difficil _to catch - alive, at least. But, who could resist a hand-delivered meal? Come now - cease your trembling!"

Its mouth opened wide.

"_Stop!_"

Spy froze and winced in slight annoyance. He turned his head to face his color. Scout was shaking; but it was that rage coursed through his body, not fear. Well. Maybe a little bit of fear. He _was _standing up to something that could break his neck without a second thought. "Don't eat 'em. Please... don't eat 'em. Anyone but him. Please. I can't watch you eat him alive." The reason was never stated, but both of them knew it. He couldn't watch himself be eaten.

It looked between the Scouts for a brief time. Just when it seemed the end was near, the boy was then released, body falling to the ground haphazardly and without remorse on Spy's part. "I will not eat him." The words surged through Scout's veins like a salve. He placed a hand over his rapidly beating chest, sighing silently. So it did have a heart.

"Thanks, Spy. I owe ya' one."

"Indeed."

Tentacles wrapped around the limp BLU's body, a symphony of pops and cracks as every bone was snapped into bits. Just like the Sniper, Scout looked just fine, perhaps a bit more gelatinous than usual; but he was surely dead. It'd all happened so fast that pain hadn't expressed itself through physical feature. "_What the hell, man!" _Cried the runner, appalled, mouth agape.

"I promised I would not eat him. Kill him - ah, _camerade_, you said nozing about killing him!"

* * *

><p>They waited until Scout's body was taken by respawn before any other words were exchanged. It took a little longer than usual - certainly worrying - but Scout was calmed after the blood and guts dematerialized, as if nothing had ever marred the concrete. Spy had situated itself in its pool, swaying lazily to and fro as he always did. Eyes closed, the beast looked almost hypnotizing.<p>

Scout cleared his throat.

"Ain't'cha gonna finish?"

"Mm, shall I? Was zat your goal, to hear ze rest of my creation? And to zink, here I was beginning to believe zat you favored me." Before Scout could stammer another reply, Spy fell lower into his pool and began his tale. "Days went by..."

* * *

><p><strong>I swear to fucking god that I will have the next chapter out soon. <strong>

**'Cause I'm already kind of almost done-ish writing it. **

**And then you get sexxins.  
>(guess who it is? c'mon, guess!) <strong>


	5. French Interlude one

Days, weeks went by after the first administration. While Michel was physically drained, his symptoms began to recede. Any pain associated with the condition had faded away, the swelling just beneath his ribs had decreased, and bruises without bleeding were becoming common. Sure, nausea and vomiting came and went, but Medic had assured him that it was just part of the chemotherapy - nothing to worry about at all. Besides, it was better than what it could have been, Spy had often been told. He could have made it worse.

Week one was spent in the ICU of the medical bay. Spy was allowed a standing time total of one hour a day, multiple doses of medicines that had long names following those periods of freedom. He didn't care for being so sedentary, but he was so weak that any thoughts didn't matter– all he felt was exhaustion. Wilhelm monitored him closely, Fritz evidently having found something else better to do. The BLU Medic often came in and chatted him up on casual things when he felt so inclined. Spy asked about the day's battle; the reply was always, "Good. Both sides fought valiantly," as if that would sate him. It never did.

That's all he really could remember, prior to being able to fight again. Fuzzy images of prolonged periods of lying in bed, standing up, pacing around, and occasional trips to the doctor's office: those stuck with him, for some ungodly reason, but more pertinent details weren't there. On the fifth week, battle privileges were restored. Spy's recovery had been fantastic. Better than expected, actually. Why not give him back what he most desired? If Spy had been conditioned to show gratitude, he would have jumped for joy when the knife returned to his hand.

"Pace yourself, _liebling_. My examination may have ruled you as healthy – vell, healthier zan you have been – but zere are zings I may have missed, or zings I may not have calculated properly. I do not vant you hurting yourself." The Medic leaned forward on his elbows, making him seem more like a gargoyle than a doctor as he sat in his ornate leather desk chair in the corner while watching Spy collect himself for the day's match. "A new Spy is very hard to come by zese days, and I vould zink, after all zat ve have been zrough, ve have bonded slightly. If you need me – at all – for anyzing, I vill be just a name's call away."

Spy slipped on his jacket, tugging the cuffs of his shirt through the sleeves. He patted himself down. Gun, knife, portable sapper; comforting, yet foreign at the same time due to not having his equipment handy for so long. "_Merci beaucoup_, Fritz, but I do not believe zat I will be needing your assistance in any way. I feel great _mon ami_, and I would not wish to inconvenience you, or distract you from your... duties." Though he'd avidly tried, ignoring Wilhelm's fluttering figure at the back of the room was proving a challenge even for him. His eyes followed the German move back and forth, fiddle with knobs, flip switches, write things down, move on, and repeat the same process. "And what of zat one, hm?"

Fritz leaned back and looked over his shoulder. He sighed, hand running through salt-and-pepper hair. "I have told him zat ve vill be fighting today. He vill make it, or so he tells me. _Gott_, sometimes I do not know vhat to do vith him. Obedient, but more like a mentally deficient puppy." Fritz chuckled a little at his own joke. He cleared his throat, though, once he saw the Frenchman did not respond as well. "Ve have an hour or so before the alarms go off. Keep varm. I know how you do not like ze cold."

And that certainly was true, thought the Spy, throwing the scarf around his neck and bidding the German a gestured farewell. There wasn't anything productive to do in that short span of time, save for clean his guns, or something else small and mind-numbing. But what did it matter now? He could do anything he wanted, he was damn near cured!

As he took a step outside to enjoy a cigarette (he hadn't had one in oh-so-long, and it still probably wasn't a great idea to have one so soon), the Russian member of the team wandered up to the bay, Sasha in his gargantuan sausage fingers. He paused briefly when he caught the man, raising his eyebrows in slight surprise. One hand reached out and prodded Spy's suit; the limb was hastily batted away. "Spy is not dead? Have not seen you in so long, thought we were getting replacement," came the broken, accented English.

The Frenchman smiled, blowing a ring of smoke into the frigid air. "Quite alive, _mon ami._ I do appreciate your concern, however. Hurry along now. I am sure ze docteur is eager to see someone that _isn't_ me." Heavy hesitated, lips pursed. Then, he smiled, and his hand hit Spy with all the force of a speeding truck in a friendly pat on the back.

"I am glad you are not dead," he chortled, then disappeared into the building. Spy took another drag. Ah, the life of being a simpleton.

Time passed much quicker when you found things to do and before Michel knew it, the alarms had gone off. He tucked the revolver into his jacket, knife in his back pocket, and darted out of the room without putting his cleaning supplies up. His heart raced in anticipation; his demeanor, cool. Just like being a rookie again.

Soldier was standing at attention when Spy arrived at the entrance to the barn, the rest of the members having already rushed ahead to prepare. He looked blank, staring off into the distance - then again, that wasn't anything new. The Spy shivered, looking at the man; and he was certain it wasn't due to the cold. Adrenaline-fueled cries of battle could still be heard far off, receding quickly.

"_Soldat?_ Why have you not proceeded?" Asked Spy casually, standing next to him and following his gaze,"I would have zought you would be ze first on ze battlefield."

"I was waiting for _you, _dear Michel."

He slipped the revolver out of his inner pocket as fast as he could manage. Soldier was faster; an elbow caught him square in the solar plexus. Spy crumpled, folded into himself, coughed up a bit of blood before the loss of his limbs hit him. Cold wetness soaked through his suit, icicles pricked his flesh; he couldn't even remember the process of falling. Soldier's boot nudged the side of his head, rolling him over to face him. Though blurry eyed, he saw the American smile cruelly. "I 'ad 'eard zat you were healed. I expected more." Correction_: Frenchman_ smile cruelly. A cloud of smoke enveloped him and the image of Soldier melted away to be replaced by BLU's Spy.

"Oh, 'ow ze mighty 'ave fallen. I would 'elp you up, but zen I would not be doing my job right." BLU caressed RED's cheek. "_Oh, mon petit. Je déteste faire cette.__ Ils m'ont payé si bien._ _Mais, la vie est cruelle._" The BLU reached for his back pocket, and the image of dying flashed into Michel's mind. He didn't want to die yet! Not so soon after a second chance! But, it was not a knife he removed; instead, a syringe.

Michel knew what was coming before the needle pricked his skin.

He welcomed the numbing darkness.

* * *

><p>Guttural grunts; yelling, screaming, to the point of nearly bursting his eardrums. A crash; a general cacophony of noise. Breathing, albeit slow, came naturally. But he couldn't move.<p>

_What is wrong with me? _

Michel wasn't dead. Definitely not dead. He'd forgotten that Delano wouldn't be so kind as to kill him when given the opportunity to torture him. The old Christian lore of "hell" and "heaven" and even Dante's interpretation of the former didn't seem to match his current state of being; it wouldn't even be considered a "personal hell" for the moment.

"_-no reason vhatsoever it should not take, and I do not plan on losing zis one to-._" Fritz's voice was unmistakable.

_What is going to take? _

Fritz's sentence was suddenly cut off. "_I 'ave given you what you 'ave requested, why will you not let me leave, yotre médecin fou?_"

A brief period of silence.

"_You vere_ careless_, somezing I suppose I must expect from an enemy Spy. I cannot _let _you leave._"

"_I would_ dearly _love to see you attempt to keep me in 'ere._"

"_And you. Your team is _useless._ All of you BLUs seem to not be up to standard. Vhy can you not be competent for once! Zat is probably vhy you cannot win a single round, even viz our best member of ze team out of commission!_" Quick German followed the words, obviously not from Fritz's mouth. German had never been Spy's forté; from what he could tell, Wilhelm was apologizing and possibly begging. Glass suddenly shattered, and a startled cry followed.

Delano spoke rapidly in French and he threatened to end Fritz's life.

A shot rang out; something large enough to knock over a gurney fell to the floor. Commands were barked in German to get rid of - Spy assumed - Delano's corpse. Footsteps drifted away, along with unintelligible muttering.

Fritz's hand pressed against Michel's neck, feeling his pulse. He hadn't even heard the man approach; if he could flinch, he certainly would have. "Alive, I see," he grunted as he lifted Spy's eyelid and shined a small light into it. The doctor suddenly smiled. "_And_ avake? You should have told me earlier, _liebling_. Oh, vait. I suppose you still cannot. Othervise I am sure your protest over your current predicament vould have manifested itself into a knife at my zroat. Like ze BLU. You heard zat, didn't you?" Medic's words were fierce jabs coated with false mirth. He set the light down and patted the Frenchman's cheek with the same hand, letting Spy drift back into darkness while he stepped off to take care of things.

The German had it right on the nose, thought Spy, mentally grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. He certainly _would _have stabbed Fritz in the throat. Multiple times. And his little lackey, too.

The machine used to save his life, still positioned over the same gurney he'd received treatment on, had briefly caught his eye before all had become black: it had been altered to the point of being nigh unrecognizable. Something was seriously wrong. "Of course you heard it," the doctor continued. "Ah, I am so sorry zat ve had to sedate you: you surely vould not have agreed to zis if I had approached you after ze battle. Honestly, I vasn't sure zat ze mixture I gave ze BLU vould vork. Isn't ze human body amazing? A neuromuscular blocker, along viz a sedative, to keep you nice and sleepy and uncooperative. You _vere _in danger of suffocating, so I hooked you up to ze oxygen machine. You're _velcome. _Oh, look at you, darling. You look so pitiful, like vhen you first learned of your disease. I almost feel bad."

Fritz kept talking, asking questions he knew the patient had no answer to, shuffling invisible things around on desks and counters and pacing from one point to another. He knew that Spy wanted to know what was going on, eventually explaining that _lucky little Michel _would be the first in a (hopefully) long line of patients for attachment experiments - circa Nazi times in World War II. This particular experiment was near and dear to Fritz. A patient with a lower-than-average immune system, incapable of fighting off foreign cells would be perfect; but, to get to that point from Michel's deathly state, treatment would have to have been administered. Otherwise, a surgery of this magnitude would definitely result in death. And the Administrator approved of it, he was more than happy to admit to the paralyzed man! The very woman who accepted treatment to save him was going to probably kill him. Michel knew she was twisted but _fuck_, Helen was a personal friend.

How long had she known?

Even worse, was this the plan from the beginning?

After a prolonged period of time, Wilhelm returned, duly noted because of the barking tone that Fritz suddenly adopted in German. Yelling at the poor man because of minor things; an every-day _Cendrillon_, if Fritz were the twisted combination of all three step-sisters and their mother. There was some mention of a broom, and Spy could hear the _shh, shh _of straw across linoleum. A strong hand gripped his arm and a needle pricked his skin. "I have no doubt zat you heard zat as vell. Come, vake, _mein_ precious subject."

It took Spy a couple minutes to finally regain feeling in his limbs and for his breathing to return to normal. He tried to get up - and quickly found he couldn't. Ah. Of course. Restraints should have been expected.

Fritz slipped the oxygen mask off of Spy's face so he could breathe easier.

Spy's eyes opened slowly. The light hurt his eyes for but a moment until everything adjusted. A certain mad doctor was leaning over him, grinning, blood splattered clothing catching Spy's eye before the rest of him. He was in the bay, as he had previously assessed; and just like earlier, things had drastically changed. The chemotherapy machine had been outfitted with the Medigun again, and wires out the wazoo criss-crossed every which-way that connected to an even larger CPU. A metal capsule full of a clear, viscous fluid was positioned next to that. "Zat's vhere you vill be staying, once ve are all done," twittered Fritz, who had followed Spy's gaze.

"What are you going to do to me?" Spy manged to croak out, weakly. Those seemed to be the magic words, as the German began clapping and laughing cheerfully. Spy's previous gurney had been moved away to make room for the one he currently lay on, head of the bed closest to the Medigun contraption.

"Zat is for me to know and for you to _painfully _experience. Wilhelm! _Komm! Schnell!_" Wilhelm moved quickly to Fritz's side. "Turn everyzing on, and make sure that the gun is at its lowest setting. I vould not vant ze patient feeling pleasure from zis. I shall be back momentarily viz our creature. Do not mess anyzing up, you cur."

Spy, however, saw him as much more than that. Fritz stomped out of the room while Wilhelm took up a clipboard with various numbers on it. He turned to the large machine behind him and began flipping knobs and turning dials.

"Wilhelm, do you believe it fair when he treats you like that?" Spy spoke in slightly broken German.

The man froze. "No. No, I suppose," he finally admitted after a long period of silence. He looked over his shoulder; remorse and sadness clouded his eyes.

"I can change that. You would no longer be a slave to this bastard." A _clop_ of boots alerted them to Fritz's soon arrival. "Let me free," Spy hissed, "and I can free us _both_!" Wilhelm considered this. He twitched his body in Spy's direction - then suddenly jerked back as Fritz entered the room. He wheeled in what looked like the body of a larger-than-normal octopus in a glass jar. It didn't appear to be moving much. The doctor set it down near the counter, replaced it with the Bonesaw and turned to the Spy.

"Wilhelm, do you mind taking a look at our aquatic little friend?" His eyes flashed darkly; Spy became a tad worried about what he was going to do with the tool in his hand. "He has not moved much since ve put him in ze container."

"Yes, I can do zat." Wilhelm nodded. He took one step to the container, and Fritz wheeled around. In one fell swipe, he slit the German's throat and pushed him forcefully to the ground. Wilhelm scrambled to grab something to prop himself up on while attempting to hold back the blood pouring out of his neck; bottles crashed to the floor, cabinets toppled over, a symphony of terrifying noise echoing down the hall.

Fritz bashed the man over the head with the brunt side of the saw. "Is it funny to call your superior a bastard? Is it, Wilhelm?" His jaw flapped open and closed like a fish out of water, and Fritz laughed. "A _bastard_! I vould zink zat I vas more of an asshole, or a monster; but a _bastard_?" The blade nicked the left side of Wilhelm's neck. More red trickled out. "You zink I could not hear you talking. I hear _everyzing._ _A__uf wiedersehen, Wilhelm!_"

Spy watched helplessly as the man hacked away at Wilhelm's bones and flesh, arms swinging wildly from side to side as if trying to subdue the corpse. The sickening range of sounds from the _thwok! _of a knife into soft, sinewy flesh to the _tink-chh-crack! _of the motions of sawing through bone. After a point he simply toyed with the body. He carved intricate designs into what little untainted flesh there was, removed his eyes and put them into same glass jar as the sea creature. Every finger was meticulously cut off. The body was scalped.

Definitely in the top five most disgustingly morbid things Spy had ever seen, even in all his years of practice. Fritz rose and turned. He looked at Spy for a long while. "Your turn." His words were tentative, unsure; could the German possibly have second thoughts so far into the process?

Evidently not, for Fritz sprang and began sticking Spy with all sorts of needles. Arms, legs, neck and chest: if there was a major vein somewhere under the skin, there went a needle. A clear fluid ran through the IV's. Cool liquid replaced the normal warmth that came from every heartbeat. Everything slowed down. "Good night, Michel," the Doctor hissed as fuzzies clouded his vision, "I vill see you in ze morning. Hopefully!"

* * *

><p>There was noise. A pleasant, low hum, something completely unexpected considering all that had happened. Pleasure near immediately gave way to intense, throbbing pain: gashes across his chest, some sutured and some not, and it felt as if he'd been bitten multiple places on his body. There was an odd tingling sensation below his waist.<p>

_Oh god, Fritz had cut off his legs. That's what he'd done. _He only felt the large scar horizontally across his abdomen, still tender to the touch, as there was a division just below the scar that prevented him from seeing his legs. Didn't he say something about an attachment, though? Spy tried to move what he could, but every motion seemed to be going slower than usual; as if there were some force preventing him from moving at full speed.

"Good morning, _liebling_." The muffled sounds of Fritz made it to his ears before the blurred figure of him did. His body was covered in a light blue hue, and his figure constantly wavered. "I hope ze fish likes his tank." How obvious. Spy was in the tank he saw earlier. A mask connected to a long tube covered half of his face, wires and tubes punctured the skin (creating the 'biting' feeling), his body lazily drifted from side to side and up and down. Two medium-sized windows allowed him to see out into the world. Similar to a giant iron lung turned on its side, Spy could hear the ticks from the many dials and gauges on the front. The contraption was made out of a silvery metal, smooth to the touch.

Fritz tapped the glass a few times with a grin. "A marvel of science, isn't it? A preservation tank; similar to a fetus and its vomb. Cozy, ja? I made it myself." He removed a pen and pad from his front pocket. He started scribbling on the paper as he looked around. "Vell, your vital signs are fine. Your heart rate is a little low, as is your RBC from last analysis. Ooh, goodness, let me tell you! I almost lost you more zan once on ze table. It_ is_ hard to find good help zese days. Usually doctors have a staff of more zan four people, even more for somezing as complicated as a hemicorporectomy wiz reattachment. It was almost impossible wiz just one doctor. But, accomplished! You should be zanking me."

Spy attempted to speak but all that came out was bubbles. Pitiful. "Vat was zat? Your face contorted. Vere you trying to talk to me? Hold on, let me turn zis on..." Fritz reached down and flipped a switch. "Now, vat were you saying?"

"_You're a vile__, disgusting monster, Fritz_." His words came through a speaker and they crackled and snapped at intervals.

"Ja, ja, I am. Zank you for noticing." The doctor smiled, bowing a little.

"_You realize zat I will be killing you as soon as I get ze chance, correct?_"

His mouth twisted into a frown. "You vill never get zat chance. I do believe zat is enough talking for you." The lever was flipped again and Spy was left in silence.

Fritz moved from one machine to another, wrote things down, spoke to himself in German, and repeated the process. Spy caught him mentioning things like a recovery process for Spy; filling out forms for Wilhelm's "unexpected" death; shipment for his body; monitoring his health from then on out.

Nothing detailed, though. He must have known that his German was decent.

* * *

><p>The first and nights passed slowly only because he was uncertain of what time of day it actually was. Once time was established, the following weeks weren't nearly as bad. Spy slept as he felt he needed to, was given "nutrition" intravenously and through a tube at regular intervals, and received talks when Fritz was feeling chatty.<p>

The doctor talked about everything that didn't apply to their situation. _Everything_. From family in the homeland to food that he ate to places he wished he'd gone to before serving in the war. Some of it was subconscious. Michel honestly believed the doctor had gone crazy at one point, as he started replying to imaginary questions. He'd also begun the practice of cleaning Wilhelm's bones, which was also a (what Spy assumed to be) regular routine. The flesh began to rot over time. Discoloration was evident in the muscle and tendons became slack.

Fritz didn't seem to mind. He looked as if he enjoyed it despite the probably vile smell.

Battles were becoming more sporadic as time passed. Spy couldn't hear the faint explosions from rockets, quiet screams of terror and death. Evidently his team was doing horribly without him, and that served to be at least a little bit of a twisted pick-me-up.

When it came time to change maps it turned out to be a bit of a challenge, or so Fritz stated. They were scheduled to move to Turbine, one of those stupid little capture places that only the Scouts actually enjoyed (not like Spy got to vote on it), with little to no room for any Medic to set up a functioning medical bay. Considering his health was on the rise (though, perhaps "stable" was a much better word), Spy was actually more curious as to how Fritz planned on shuttling him there.

Within three days came the answer. Faceless men trudged in and gradually disassembled all the surrounding equipment. They worked without word to Spy and spoke in a Middle Eastern language; some derivative of Arabic. Fritz popped in occasionally to yell at them, berate them, whatever he thought would make him feel the best.

On the third day Spy noticed bags in his hands. It was obvious he was packing - and he was going without him.

"Fritz, wait! Where are you going?" The Frenchman had called out meekly, just as the German snatched up his hat. The speaker had been left on since their first 'incident'; Spy wasn't much of a talker around Fritz as it was, so there wasn't any harm in it.

The doctor turned back, glancing over his shoulder casually. "Ze same as place as you are - vhy are you fretting? Is ze lonely Spy vorried zat his doctor vill not return?" He shrugged, chuckled and headed towards the door. Spy quickly opened his maw to make a snappy retort, but he left much quicker than anticipated and he folded his arms defiantly instead. He settled for half-heartedly watching the workers.

The sad thing was that Fritz wasn't too far off from being right. The German had grown on him - so considerably, in fact, that Spy would kill him quickly instead of letting him suffer if he should so happen upon the chance. He'd shared much more with him than Spy would have ever hoped to dream, both good and bad. He tended to Spy's needs. He asked opinions on dress wear and weapon schematics. Fritz wasn't _bad_, just _crazy_... if a significant difference between the two actually existed. Spy looked forward to seeing him each time he awoke from one of his random naps. You know, Turbine would probably be fun: Fritz would have more time to talk with him because Medics weren't really needed on a map like that-

The sudden pang of realization that hit him left him wide-eyed and felt like someone was twisting his innards into a pretzel.

Was he developing a capture-bonding mindset?

Shit. Shit shit shit. _Merde_. That had been his plan from the beginning, hadn't it? Fritz wasn't a stupid man. He knew that Spy would become attached, and then... god, were any of those stories he'd told even true? Fritz could tell him anything at this point and he'd eat it up like a puppy. Was he that starved for companionship? Could Fritz be planning to kill him under that guise of mirth and happiness? Send him off to Helen, for an even worse punishment? More experiments?

No. _No._ He couldn't have that. _Wouldn't_ have that.

He snapped back to reality when the men advanced toward his tank. They reached out to the base, an attempt to just scoop it up and be done with it. "Leave me be! Get away!" He shouted in the tiny amount of Arabic that he knew. The men flinched, stepped back - it might not have been their actual language but they appeared to know what he meant.

"Take," one of the men stated, apparenly attempting to convey the message to Spy. They reached for him again. Spy bucked and thrashed about, slamming his torso against the glass and the walls. The men shouted something - he didn't care what - and they gripped the sides of the container with all of their might in order to steady him. But Spy possessed a newfound strength, something he hadn't noticed before; each hit bowed the metal, chipped away at the glass, threatened to burst the very capsule itself.

"Go! Leave! - report -" Spy caught through the walls, and might have caught more if he hadn't been in such a blind fury. This was everything. Every emotion that lay dormant within him these past months, the sadness and anger and despair. Fritz had been his _friend_, Helen had been his boss and comrade and the whole team had left him and he had to watch Wilhelm's murder and _goddamnit now he was a **monster**! Nothing could ever be the same! _His life was over, any hopes of having a family gone in the _snap_ of some twisted motherfucker's fingers! It couldn't be fair - why'd it all have to happen to _him_! He had done good deeds in his life, not everything was about murder and sex and-_  
><em>

He heard the _chink-th-chink _of the shattering glass and froze. The tank gave an unearthly moan and burst, spilling its contents: glass, metal, wires, and not to forget Michel himself. The Frenchman tumbled out, lower half ripping from its separate container, strange pinpricks of feeling finally making their way down his spine (though to what, he didn't care to know). Wires and needles ripped from every limb. The oxygen mask slipped from his mouth and he gasped for air - sweet, icy air, heavy and polluted with gunpowder and smoke even long after battle. He didn't realize how much he missed it until after a couple breaths.

And then the pain set in. Dear **_god_** the absolutely soul-crushing pain that ripped at every fiber of his being. He screamed. He screamed until his voice became hoarse, until he could feel his throat bleeding from the abuse. Tears began to roll down his moist cheeks despite tightly closed eyes; breaths came between shaky sobs and his body trembled violently. Wasn't this a thing that people did when faced with immense distress? Spy had been so hardened over the years that he'd pretty much forgotten what crying was.

He lay still for an indeterminate amount of time before closing his eyes and finally passing out.

* * *

><p>When Spy awoke, he honestly wasn't sure where he was; all he knew was that he was moving. Mountains and dusty orange ground passed by at a quick pace, and a blue sky with wispy clouds stretched overhead. The sun lay slightly to the west - perhaps around two o'clock, if he could remember how to tell time correctly.<p>

He had to shield his eyes even while in water. Had outside always been this bright?

A hand reached out - and a barrier yet again stopped him. He was stuck in a large, glass capsule, significantly larger than his last home; almost like a deep, cylinder-shaped pool. A machine at the base pumped air though a gas-mask like apparatus, again attached to Spy's mouth. Another tube, much thinner, also ran from the machine to a vein in his arm. He recognized a tingling feeling when he prodded it. Probably some kind of painkiller.

Speaking of pain...

Spy took a deep, slow breath and looked down. His legs really _were_ gone; his heart skipped a beat. In their place was a set of... eight? tentacles, fat and red from inflammation. They were at least double his height and three-fourths of his width. Where in the world Fritz had found an octopus massive enough to fit a human was beyond him; but then again TF2 Industries always had a way of getting whatever you needed for the right price. They moved with the sway of the water, folding around themselves to the point where he was sure they would tangle up (but of course never did). Could he control them yet? It wouldn't hurt to try.

The tank jostled before anything could be done and his "legs" swayed violently; metal scraped against metal and Spy turned. On a truck. Of course. That damned doctor must've not wanted to risk flying with the change in pressure so soon after surgery. They were traveling towards the horizon; wasn't this the route to Well?

After settling himself, Spy decided to try again. He looked down and took a deep breath, focusing on one tendril. It moved against the flow of the water, up and down and side-to-side and even in circles - just the tip, but it was movement! He wasn't sure if he should be happy or repulsed.

Spy continued testing out his new extremities for the duration of the trip, well past the setting of the sun and the uncomfortable ride. Some time after dark - time passed quickly when you were floating in water - the truck slowed to a stop at no particular location. Or maybe it was a particular location; Spy could only see rocks and dark horizon. He watched the passenger door open and a familiar salt-and-pepper haircut greeted his eyes. And his blood immediately began to boil.

The doctor came around the back and grinned. Fritz tapped the glass and Spy immediately grimaced. The sound echoing through the water was damn near intolerable- now he really knew how a fish felt. "You know, you are lucky I came in vhen I did. Your body can no longer tolerate just air; ze lower half of you is made of mostly mucous membranes and must be kept submerged." It wasn't like it was desirable information, but Spy thought to listen nonetheless. "However, zough your torso is also composed of more obvious membranes than skin, still requires air - I _have_ increased your lung capacity somevat, viz zis attachment," Fritz announced proudly, "but if I had left you, perhaps, ten minutes longer, you vould have become severely dehydrated. You could have died."

Spy clenched his fists. "I _am_ dead. Why do you even care about _my_ well being?"

"_Your_ well being? Ha! I do not. However, I do care about _my greatest experiment. _Zat is vhy you are still alive! So ungrateful..."

And with that, Fritz double checked the straps holding Spy down, gave the tank one last pat, and returned to the cab of the truck. With a sputter and hiccup of the engine, the vehicle rumbled to life and continued across the sandy plain.

So there it was. Spy really wasn't a man anymore. There was a term for this, he believed; "rubbing the salt in the wound?" Wasn't that it? Because it felt more like rubbing razors into his wound. Salt didn't hurt nearly enough.

* * *

><p><strong>So I'm joining the air force and probably won't ever finish this. To those of you who have waited so patiently for this conclusion, I'm sorry to disappoint. Anyone is welcome to take it over, and I might update very infrequently, but I make no promises. <strong>

**To my darling Silver, you've become a wonderful writer and very confident in your abilities. I wish you only the best. I shall keep in contact with you as much as I can before my departure- should I remember, ha. I wish you only the best, love. **

**There may be chunks missing or really weird words in random spots. My ipad is an asshole. Please tell me ASAP in a PM or in a review. Thank you all who have read this. I really appreciate it. You're all lovely. **


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